


Feeling Alive

by flora_tyronelle



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe - Ballet, Alternate Universe - Dance, Angst, Multi, Music, Pride and Prejudice kind of inspired this ngl, Reader-Insert, Slow Burn, dance, if you're reading that and asking how on earth did P&P inspire a dance fic, well I'm asking the same question
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 06:24:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 43,689
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15989513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/flora_tyronelle/pseuds/flora_tyronelle
Summary: Dance school!AU (or the Step Up/Pride and Prejudice mash up nobody asked for). Bucky Barnes is forced to take twelve hours of commercial dance classes to pass the year- and that just happens to be your regular weekly dance class.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to a monster. Frankenfic was born on tumblr and I've been meaning to transfer it forever and a day. Today is that day.

The studio smells like white vinegar and floor polish, and sunshine pours in through the skylights. In the centre of the room, the dancers twirl gracefully, their reflections keeping pace as they sketch out the steps: from downstage left to centrestage right. Bucky quietly closes the door behind him and joins the gaggle of first years who are craning their necks to watch Miss Carter’s advanced ballet class. He fixes his eyes on the flash of red hair. Nat is dancing in pride of place, the centre of the ensemble. He smiles a little to see it. Nat will be pleased. She likes to be the best.

“Good.” Miss Carter raps out the word with familiar sharpness; Bucky automatically straightens his spine. “Now, to music. Please give your jetés more life: you should  _glide_ , not hop about like a rabbit.” She switches on the ancient CD player and counts them in.

Bucky watches with interest as the class complete the intricate line of steps. Nat makes it look easy, weightless. Mind you, that’s what seventeen years of training do to you; and, after all, he would know. The dancers finish the line and Miss Carter shuts off the music.

“Better. You may proceed to reverence, then stretching. Thank you for your effort today, girls.” The dark-haired lady inclines her head to her pupils and plays the familiar, peaceful strains of piano music that signal the end of the class. The dancers ease their way through the prescribed series of port de bras and curtseys, before breaking away, talking in quiet voices, to begin their warm-down stretches.

Nat strides over to him, wiping the back of her neck with a towel, her red hair tinged with sweat.

“You looked good,” Bucky tells her, and Nat tilts her head to one side- her usual reaction to justified praise.

“Weren’t you supposed to be in class?” She asks, moving to stretch out her hamstrings. Bucky winces on her behalf.

“Nah, got let out early. Figured I’d come and see how the prodigy is getting on.”

She snorts. “You can talk.”

Bucky rolls his eyes. It’s the only appropriate response.

Nat’s classmates exchange polite small talk as they begin to pack up their belongings and drift from the room. Bucky recognises all of them: in an environment as insular as the Academy it’s impossible not to know everyone, at least by sight. And everyone knows  _him_. He has something of a reputation.

“Ready to go?” Nat shimmies her leggings over her hips before slinging her bag over her shoulder. Bucky pushes the door open for her and smiles wryly.

“Ready to find out our doom, you mean.”

“Steve!” Nat raises her voice to catch the attention of the tall blonde waiting outside the classroom down the corridor. “He’s moaning again!”

Bucky’s roommate turns around, grinning.

“Is he? Come on, Bucky,” Steve sighs with mock exasperation, “Can’t you- oh, I don’t know, find something to be cheerful about?”

At his elbow, their classmate Sam snorts.

“If that happened, we’d think he’d been body-swapped.”

Even Nat cracks a smile at that, but, thankfully, before they can gang up on him further, Director Fury sticks his head out through the door.

“I’m not getting any younger in here. Come on,” He pushes the door wide, “Let’s get this over with.”

They file in past the director, nodding politely. Fury’s had charge of the Academy for as long as Bucky’s been here, and before he’d taken the position he’d been a student here: not to mention seven years as the first black principal dancer in an international company. Bucky would find that level of achievement intimidating, were it not for the fact that Fury is the most relaxed teacher here by a long shot.

“Sit your asses down-”  _Case in point_ , “-I haven’t got all day.”

Bucky does a quick head-count as they take a table in the front row. Nearly half of the year are here: clearly they’d all been conned by the same rumour that he had.

“I’ll get straight to the point,” Fury tells them, eyeing them over his wire-rimmed glasses, “I expect most of you have heard that ‘ _Expanding the Lens: A Wider View on Performance Art’_ is the easiest optional module you’re ever going to take. And maybe that was true, last year. But, unfortunately for you, we’ve decided to change it.”

Bucky’s sure that if this were any other school, a heartfelt groan would have chased its way around the room. Fury looks amused.

“You’ll have seen the email: this module will no longer require twelve hours of compulsory lectures. Instead, we expect you to complete twelve hours of independent study and a two-thousand-word report on your experiences.”

At the expressions on all their faces, Fury snorts.

“You didn’t think a course here would be  _easy_ , did you?” The mocking sarcasm is tangible. Bucky supposes they deserve it. The most prestigious performing arts school in the area wouldn’t know what an easy ten credits  _was_. “There are two places available with a variety of organisations in the area. The sign-up sheet is outside my office.” Fury gives them all a warning look. “I will be in touch with the instructors, so if you skip an hour, I’ll know about it. Class dismissed.”

As soon as the director has left the room, talk explodes from all directions. Bucky just groans. He can’t decide which is worse: finding twelve hours to spare in his already crammed schedule, or the two-thousand-word report at the end. Steve’s hand lands on his shoulder in consolation.

“Partners?”

Bucky looks at his best friend. “I can’t think of anyone else I’d want to suffer through this with.”

Steve laughs.

“Looks like you’re stuck with me, Romanoff,” Sam grins, and Nat raises her eyes to the ceiling.

“Save us. Are we going to sign up now, then?”

Bucky shrugs helplessly.

“Might as well. Otherwise we’ll be stuck with salsa or something equally awful.”

Steve elbows him good-naturedly.

“Nothing like a bit of optimism, Buck.”

Bucky just glares.


	2. Slow Hands

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Slow Hands- Niall Horan

You dash into the studio with your bag held over your head and rainwater soaking your shoes.

“Hey, Y/N!” Wanda theatrically raises her eyebrows as you shut the door behind you. “Is it raining out there?”

You pull a face at her.

“I’m fu-fricking  _drenched_ ,” You say, vehemently. “As soon as I left work, boom! The heavens opened!”

Pepper, poised and polished in the middle of the space, pulls a sympathetic face. “Do you want to borrow some spare socks? I’ve brought a pair?”

You hesitate, then nod gratefully. You’re practically squelching with every step you take. At least you’d had the sense not to put on your trainers when you left work. Pepper fishes in her bag for the socks as you cross to where Clint is stood and shuck your way out of your coat (dripping water everywhere).

“Good week?” Clint asks, even as he dodges the spray. You tilt your head in a  _so-so_  gesture.

“Not bad. Had one-” You get stuck on the sign for ‘crying’ and have to mime, “-Crying jag today- not me,” You add hastily, noting Clint’s concerned expression, “One of the students. Exams are getting to them.”

Clint shakes his head and sketches out his reply with his fingers. “And I thought libraries were boring.”

You give a small smile. Clint’s deaf- or, as he says, as near to it as it makes no matter- and although he does have hearing aids, he tends to leave them out around people he knows can sign. You’re not totally fluent, but you can get by just fine. You frame your next question with a hook of the fingers. “You?”

He nods. “Not bad. I took Laura to the restaurant you mentioned, she seemed to really like it.”

You grin at that, holding up your hand for a high-five before showing your reply. “What did I tell you? Glad you had fun.”

Clint looks a little bashful, but pleased at the same time. He and Laura have been tentatively dating for nearly two months now, and things seem to be going well. Pepper gently taps you on the shoulder and offers you a clean pair of socks.

“Thanks, Pepper. I owe you one.”

“Don’t mention it,” She says, sweetly. “Are you alright for getting home?”

You shrug. “If it’s still raining that hard I can get a bus. And a bit of water never killed anyone.” You struggle with the sign for ‘kill’: not one you use very often.

Clint raises his hand. “Objection.”

You roll your eyes. “Nobody ever drowned in rainwater. Happy?”

“I’ll be happier when you get your ass in gear, Y/N!” Wanda calls. “We’re all waiting for you!”

Oops. You quickly slide off your over-trousers to reveal your workout leggings, pull off your jumper and swap your sodden shoes and socks for dry trainers. Clint slides in his hearing aids, offers you a hand up, and together you walk out onto the floor.

“Sorry, Wanda,” You apologise sheepishly, but she just smiles. You’ve known her for years now, ever since you started taking classes at Scarlet Studios as part of a New Years’ Resolution that, astonishingly, you had actually managed to keep. Over that time, you’ve become close friends with both her and your classmates. You often think of the Wednesday class as a little family: small, weird, and weirdly comfortable with each other.

But before Wanda can start the class, there’s a knock at the door. Wanda looks at you all, before shrugging and walking over to answer it. Two strange guys are standing outside.

“Can I help you?” Wanda asks.

“Sorry to bother you,” The blonde one says, immediately, “But we’re looking for the advanced commercial dance class?”

You look at Pepper, stood beside you. Her expression mirrors yours: bemusement. It’s not like anyone can just walk into the advanced class- dancers are expected to work their way up Wanda’s program until she decides you’re capable of coping with Wednesday nights. It’s that process that gives them all such a feeling of camaraderie. Plus there’s no room for awkwardness when you’ve all been through a routine that involved fifteen solid seconds (Clint had timed it) of grinding up on your partner. New people would just throw a wrench in the dynamics of the troupe. But, to your astonishment, Wanda steps aside, nodding.

“You’re the pupils from the Academy, right?”

“Right.” He holds out his hand to shake. “Steve Rogers.”

It makes for an interesting visual: Wanda in her bright red sports bra and skin-tight leggings, faced with this huge guy in a long-sleeved t-shirt and baggy trousers. Wanda takes his hand, looking as though she’s fighting back a smile. “Please, join the rest of the class. And you must be James?”

The other guy steps into the room. One look and you can tell he has none of the easy charm of his friend. His expression is set in something approaching distaste, and he only nods at Wanda’s address. You can feel your expression creasing up into a frown.  _Dammit_. And he was so good-looking. Still, you suppose, it’s better to know he’s a jerk now, rather than make an effort for no reason. You turn back to the front as the newcomers slope to the back and Wanda takes her customary position.

“Right, warmups! We’ll start off going through last weeks’ routine in half-time and solo, before partnering up. Ready?”

“Born ready,” Clint quips, and you laugh. Wanda smirks.

“We’ll see if you’re still saying that in five minutes! A five, six, a seven and eight!”

The routine Wanda had begun teaching you last week was set to an extract from  _Stay_ , and it was one of your favourites. It might not have the punchiness of some of the faster songs, but you liked the soft, almost melancholy build. Wanda had accentuated that with loose, even drapes of the arms and level changes that now make your legs shake when going through them at half-speed; then came a series of isolations that increased in rapidity until the chorus kicked in. You moved through them easily, enjoying the feeling of your body loosening and your mind tuning in with the rhythm, even though no music was playing yet.

“Good! Steve, James, you can join in this time.” You spare a look over your shoulder to see the two strangers looking lost, and try not to feel too smug.

Wanda counts you all in once more and again the moves flow out easily, right up to the point where you join with your partner.

The only problem with the Wednesday class was that because it was so small, it was very rare that there were enough dancers to pair up, particularly when there were separate moves for the lead and follow. These past few weeks you’d been dancing with Wanda: which was no great hardship, given that she knew the motions inside out. Now you looked at her expectantly as she walked over and raised her voice so the rest of the class could hear.

“Partner work begins now! Steve, James, you can observe and learn the moves for next week. The rest of you, start a couple of feet apart: I don’t want to have to sign off the paperwork for any injuries.”

There’s a general chuckle, and you face off to Wanda.

“Five, six, a seven and eight!”

And you start the next section.

By the time you’ve completed the warmup, you’re already in need of a drink and you can feel sweat beginning to bead at the small of your back. Wanda calls for a five-minute break and everyone disperses to their water bottles. You take a swig from yours and gratefully accept the towel Clint tosses your way. Pepper shakes her head. “That backbend section is going to kill me!”

“Nah,” You crack a smile, “Not unless Clint drops you.” They both laugh. “Anyway, Pepper, you’re way more flexible than I am.”

Pepper waves that away. Then her gaze settles on something beyond Clint; you turn to look, and see the two gate-crashers stood together, looking (to your private satisfaction) incredibly uncomfortable.

“Hey!” Clint calls, before you can shush him, “You guys are from Fury’s Academy?”

The blonde one, Steve, looks up, then steps closer, his expression a weird blend of guarded and friendly. “Yeah, that’s right.” Then, he frowns. “Sorry, I don’t know a lot of sign.”

Clint waves him away. “Don’t worry about it. Not many people do.”

“Forgive my ignorance,” You cut in, eyeing Steve’s sullen friend, “But what’s Fury’s Academy?”

Steve looks surprised, as though  _everyone_  knows about Fury’s Academy; his friend, James, makes a quiet huff of disbelief. You try not to bristle too obviously.

“Ah, it’s a ballet school. On the other side of town.” Pepper covers the awkward moment. “Pretty near your place, actually.”

“Well, yeah.” Steve seems to have recovered somewhat. “It’s not just ballet, they do performing arts degrees and other stuff. But Buck and I are ballet students.”

That was not what you were expecting- although, thinking about it, all that muscle had to come from somewhere.

“Alright, playtime’s over!” Wanda calls over the general chitchat. “Get back here, unless you want Clint to sit on you.”

Steve’s eyebrows shoot up. “Has that actually happened?”

“Yes,” You tell him, straight-faced, “More than once.” Then you stride off as Pepper and Clint dissolve into snickers behind you.

The class is always better when Wanda starts the music. Somehow you never get tired of the songs, even though you listen to them repeatedly when you’re practicing. There’s something about dancing that lends a different quality to a tune, a kind of addictive thrill. Plus, it’s a lot easier to do those squats when you’re dancing at proper speed. Wanda runs through the solo section several times before partnering up, and then she insists they practice with a space between them until she’s sure there will be no accidental punching or kicking. Or dropping, as you had teased Pepper about earlier.

The backbend is hard, you have to admit. Starting with your hand on Wanda’s opposite shoulder, you’re supposed to slide your hand down her arm in one fluid movement, gripping her wrist on the beat then dipping backwards (“ _Gracefully_!” You can hear Wanda shouting) for the count of four, then rising up again without apparent effort. It’s actually harder practicing the move in isolation- when you’re carried forward by the beat, it’s more obvious how the lines should flow. Still, after what feels like endless repetition, Wanda is finally satisfied. Then they run through the whole routine from the top.

“Excellent!” She calls, stepping back. “Hand-in to finish?”

You instantly perk up: hand-in is one of your favourite exercises, and you step forward eagerly as the rest of the class automatically drift into a loose circle. To your consternation, you end up stood next to Steve. He clears his throat conspiratorially and looks down at you.

“Ah, what’s hand-in?”

For an instant, a small, nasty voice in your head says,  _doesn’t everyone know about hand-in_? But you squash it down. He (and his surly friend) might have rubbed you up the wrong way, but there’s no need to be rude.

“It’s an improvisation exercise,” You tell him, “For solo dance. If you want to have a go, you put your hand into the circle, and whoever’s dancing at the time hands-off to you. Like a relay.”

From Steve’s other side comes a quiet, sarcastic voice. “And what’s the point of  _that_?”

You gape in astonishment; but before you can say anything, Wanda starts the music, and Pepper steps into the circle. Wanda’s chosen the slow, thumping beat of  _Slow Hands_ ; one of your favourites, and Pepper settles into the rhythm with a small smile. On the other side of the circle, Clint already has his hand in.

_“I’ve been thinking ‘bout it all day,_

_And I hope you feel the same way…”_

Pepper finishes the phrase then touches Clint’s palm as they trade places.

_“Slow hands, like sweat dripping out of my dirty laundry…”_

Clint is one of the few strong enough to do the acrobatic tricks Wanda has tried to teach you all, and the surrounding crowd whoop as he drops to the floor then springs upright. Impulsively you thrust out your hand. Unfortunately, both Anna and Dylan have got there first: you’ll have to wait your turn.

_“Can’t you tell that I want you, baby?”_

And finally, finally, Dylan gives your wrist a tug to signal that you have the floor. You turn your entrance into a series of spins, just to show off, then immediately drop into a wide squat and rocking your hips in a manner that Wanda had once delightedly described as  _sinful_.  _What’s the point?_  You think, pulling up and adding in a body roll, to whoops from your classmates,  _the point is that it’s fun, and sexy, and it’s about letting go and having a good time_. You throw in a few isolations, but mostly, you dance like you’re up on a burlesque stage. Down and dirty, teasing and brazen all at once.

“ _No chance that I’m leaving here without you on me,_

_I know, yeah I already know that there ain’t no stopping,_

_Your plans and those,_

_Slow hands.”_

Somebody ( _Clint_ ) wolf-whistles as the music dies away, and you drop into a graceless bow with a grin.

“Somebody went for it!” Pepper laughs, and you shrug, smiling widely.

“Wanted to have fun,” You say, perhaps a little louder than necessary, as Wanda raises her hand in the air.

“Thanks for coming tonight, everyone! I’ll see you next week. Practice, please!”

There are a chorus of thank-yous, then everyone traipses off to collect their belongings.

“Anyone doing anything exciting tonight?” Pepper asks, as she tugs her jacket back on. You shake your head.

“Vacuuming, probably. Or making soup. One of those two very thrilling options.” You sit down and pull off your trainers. “I’ll wash the socks and bring them back next week, Pepper?”

“That would be perfect. I’ll see you next week, then! Bye!” She picks up her bag and heads for the door. This is normal procedure: for some reason, you’re always the slowest to pack up your things and change back into civilian clothes. Clint gives you a mock salute.

“See you around, Y/N.”

You wave, then yell, “Are you going on another date this Friday?”

Clint nods. “Crazy golf, as per your suggestion.”

“Have fun!” You tell him, grinning widely, and he rolls his eyes before pushing through the exit.

It’s only with the other two gone that you realise that Wanda is talking to Steve and James over by the speakers. You don’t intentionally mean to listen, but they aren’t exactly talking quietly.

“-I have several people in need of partners,” Wanda’s saying. “Particularly in my intermediate class, you might feel more comfortable there-”

“Sorry,” Steve says, and his reflection in the mirror really does look apologetic, “But Wednesdays are the only day we can do.”

“Well…” Wanda appears to be thinking hard. “I think Dylan’s going back to the states in two weeks, so Anna will be without a partner. And Y/N could dance with one of you.”

Your heart drops in horror. Partnered with the condescending blonde or the sulky model? No, no, no! You grab your bag and walk, as quickly and quietly as possible, to the exit. Wanda’s voice fades as the door swings shut behind you.

You know that Wanda is only partnering you because they don’t have any more leads, but it still stings a bit that she’s offering you up to somebody else. There’s a reason you enjoy partner work so much: because Wanda is a good partner.  _Obviously_. She’s the teacher. You stride across the lobby, resolving to put it behind you, then stop dead in your tracks. Because this day couldn’t get any  _better_.

Five minutes later, and the rain is still pouring down. You sit on the trestle table that serves as a registration desk for the beginner and intermediate classes and watch the water splashing on the pavement. You hadn’t exactly been fibbing when you told Pepper you could get a bus, but the bus-stop is a ten-minute walk in the wrong direction, and home is only a twenty-minute walk as it is. Surely the rain can’t last forever.

Behind you, the studio door opens and closes, and your shoulders tense instinctively.

“Oh, great. When’s the next bus, Buck?”

You keep your eyes fixed on the window.

“Not ‘til nine thirty. What’s the matter, Stevie, scared of a bit of rain?”

“That,” Steve says, crossing to the window and peering out, “Is a biblical flood. But OK, if you want to go out and get drowned-”

“Steve,” Despite your irritation, you can hear the eye-roll implicit in the word, “We have an  _umbrella_.”

“Fine,” Steve sighs, but his expression is fond, “Let’s go out into the river- oh, sorry, the street.” He turns back, and his gaze fixes on you. “Excuse me? Sorry, I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

You sit up a little straighter, feeling guarded. “It’s Y/N.”

Steve nods, maybe to show that he’s got it. “Didn’t- your friend-”

“Pepper,” You help him out reluctantly, suddenly realising what he’s going to say with a sinking sensation in your stomach.

“Pepper, didn’t she say you lived near the Academy? Do you want to walk with us?”

“I don’t actually know,” You answer, carefully, “Where is the Academy?”

“Blackhill Road,” James answers, to your surprise. Which is actually only two streets away from you. Internally, you give a deep, heartfelt sigh. Then you get to your feet.

“Sure. Why not.”

“Alright then.” Steve doesn’t seem to notice your lack of enthusiasm. “Umbrella up, Buck!”

“Sorry,” You say, reluctantly going over to stand beside them, “ _Buck_?”

James’ expression shifts one degree warmer. “Bucky. It’s what my friends call me.”

“Guess I’d better call you James, then.” As soon as the words pop out, you suck your lips over your teeth in shock. You can’t  _believe_  you’ve just said that.

James-  _Bucky_ \- raises his eyebrows. You’d almost go so far as to say he looked mildly amused. Steve certainly seems to be holding back a laugh.

“Well,” You say, attempting to salvage some dignity, “I barely know you. And you can’t expect to insult my dance style and have me  _immediately_  enjoy your company.” Your voice is taut with irritation and forced humour. “What don’t you like about commercial dance, anyway? In fact,” An even more important question occurs to you, “If you hate it so much, why are you here in the first place?”

“I personally don’t hate it,” Steve says, mildly, holding the door open. “But we took a module that requires twelve hours of broadening our dance experience.”

“Ah,” You say, stepping outside, “You were forced here. That makes a lot more sense.”

Behind you, there’s the rustle of an umbrella opening. Steve takes the handle and James puts himself on the other side of his friend. You can’t say you’re disappointed. Like an uncomfortable three-legged race, you begin to walk carefully down the pavement.

“It’s more that there’s no depth to it,” James says, after a while, raising his voice over the sound of the rain and cars swooshing past. It’s nearly dark, even though summer is around the corner.

For a moment, you’re speechless. Then you recover your voice, even if it nearly cracks with incredulity. “No  _depth_.”

“You heard me.” It sounds like there might be smile behind those words, but you can’t see. You can, however, see Steve raising his eyes to the sky.

“And I suppose ballet has depth?” You fire back. “Because it’s all about discipline and tragedy?”

Steve snorts. “She has a point, Buck.” Then he bobbles to one side as James presumably shoves him. You squeak and dodge a large puddle.

“Think carefully about who’s side you’re on, Stevie. I’m the one with the power to put a spider in your bed.”

Steve shudders, and, despite yourself, you laugh.

“You’re roommates?”

“For my sins,” James answers, like he can’t help himself. Then  _he_  gets shoved into a puddle.

“I think Steve is probably the one suffering,” You say, mildly, “If he has to live with a dance hipster.”

“ _Dance hipster_?”

You throw his own reply back at him. “You heard me.”

A lorry comes charging down the road and all three of you flinch away from the spray of water it’s throwing up from its wheels.

“Anyway,” You continue, “There is depth to commercial dancing. It’s about having fun, and creating a spectacle. And take  _Stay_! That’s a deep song right there.”

“The song we were dancing to earlier?” James sounds so  _incredibly_  sceptical that you have to hold back a laugh.

“Yes! It’s about nostalgia for a lost youth and craving for love that no longer exists.”

Even Steve now looks sceptical. “Seriously?”

You sing the lyrics softly. “ _Waiting for the time to pass you by, hope the winds of change will change your mind… All you have to do is stay, a minute, just take your time, the clock is ticking, so stay…”_  You break off. “See? If that were sung half-time by a gentle voice and a ukulele it would be playing in every Starbucks before the month was out. And,  _finally_ ,” You say, with some feeling, “Something doesn’t have to be deep to be good.”

Neither James nor Steve can come up with a rebuttal, and you can’t help but feel smug.

“So, what do you do at ballet school?” You ask, deciding to quit the previous topic of conversation whilst you’re winning. “Dance from dawn ‘til dusk?”

“No,” James answers, his voice dry, “We have stretching classes.”

“But apart from that, you’re dancing all the time,” You say, with a touch of disbelieving humour.

“Well, there’s our compulsory modules,” Steve says, and you nod.

“Like the one that’s forced you here tonight.”

Steve inclines his head. “We have a couple of others- analysis, choreography, that kind of thing.”

“Sounds interesting.”

James snorts. “Are you just saying that?”

You raise an eyebrow. “No. Unlike  _some_ , I don’t have ridiculous prejudices against entire genres.” Which is a damn-good comeback, though you say so yourself. The moment is slightly ruined, however, by you stepping into a puddle that sloshes over the top of your shoes. “God- gosh-darn it!”

“ _Gosh-darn it_?” There’s entirely too much teasing in Steve’s tone. You glare at the floor.

“My colleagues have bet me that I can’t stop swearing for a whole month. It’s much harder than I thought it would be.”

To your surprise, both Steve and James laugh.

“Where do you work?” Steve asks.

“The university library. I’m always telling people it’s not as boring as it sounds.”

In fact, you adore your job at the library, but you always end up gushing if you open up about it. However, casual conversation about that very topic is what carries you and Steve (and occasionally James chipping in) all the way back to the turn-off for your street.

“This is where I leave you,” You say, glancing grimly out from under the umbrella at the rain still insistently falling. “Thanks for sharing your umbrella, I guess?”

Steve nods politely. “Sure you don’t want us to walk you to your door?”

It’s your turn to snort. “Do you they teach you 1950s manners in that Academy? Thanks for the offer, but I’m OK. It’s literally just down this road.” You know it’s probably ridiculous, but the idea of people you’ve just met knowing exactly where you live is also a little bit creepy. Steve smiles but accepts your refusal.

“OK, if you say so. We’ll see you next week?”

You duck out from under the umbrella and make a dash up the pavement.

“See you next week!”

Behind you, you can hear them laughing.


	3. Stay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stay- Zedd, Alessia Cara

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is pre-written and it's a hedonistic rush to be able to post without first having to write

You’re running late, again. Groaning in frustration, you seize your keys from the table and grab your bag from the floor where you’d dumped it on your way in. Trainers, water bottle, towel- all in there. Thankfully you’d packed everything you needed this morning, and, on the upside, at least it isn’t raining. You lock up behind you and check your pockets for change. A handful of coins rattles at your touch: you sigh with relief. You can get the bus to the studio. You heft your bag onto your shoulder and set off in the direction of the stop.

It’s Wednesday, and the weather has, thankfully, done a complete U-turn since last week. The sun has been shining all day, accompanied by the merest handful of puffy clouds. You’ve caught yourself staring wistfully out of the library windows more than once; at least until Nahid inevitably throws a balled-up returns receipt at your head to shatter your daydreaming. Right now, though, you don’t need to hurry- the bus isn’t due until quarter-to- so you take your time to enjoy the walk in the gilded evening light.

That enjoyment is cut short, however, when you round the corner and catch a glimpse of who else is waiting for the bus. You balk for a second, then pull yourself together. You’re just going to walk up to this collection of tall, beautiful dancers and act completely natural. Nothing to worry about whatsoever.

They don’t notice you as you draw closer, so you take the opportunity to study them. Your ‘friends’ from last week have their backs to you, but the two people they’re chatting to are exactly what you’d envisage if somebody said ‘ballet school’. The white girl is both tiny and leonine, with vibrant red hair pulled back in a bun; the guy has flawless dark skin and muscles that stand out beneath his white t-shirt. You square your shoulders and cover the remaining distance.

“Hey.”

Steve, predictably, turns around with a smile.

“Hey, Y/N!”

You smile tightly as the girl lifts her gaze to coolly survey you. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see James’ expression clouding over. Internally, you tut exasperatedly.

“Wait,  _this_  is Y/N? The one who schooled you on the way home last week?” The other guy snorts and holds out a hand. “Sam. Nice to meet you.”

“I see my fame precedes me,” You joke, dryly, as you grasp his palm. “Although what these two have been telling you-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it.” The girl steps forward. “It’s good for them to have somebody disagree with them. Natasha.”

“Nice to meet you,” You say, on reflex, even as Steve makes a strangled noise beside you.

“Oh yeah, like you don’t do that enough, Nat-”

She looks up at him, eyebrows raised. “It’s nice to have some back-up, Rogers. Keeping your egos at a manageable size is at least a two-person job.”

“Objection, Romanoff. We’re not the ones attempting the ‘most difficult audition piece this academy has ever seen’.”

You blink in surprise. Unless you’re very much mistaken, James just said something that  _wasn’t_  horrifically serious.

Natasha just rolls her eyes. “You’re one to talk, ‘only dancer to achieve full-marks in your first-year practical exam’.”

Sam grins conspiratorially at you. “And then there’s me, who’s just average. I honestly don’t know why they keep me around.”

Steve claps him on the shoulder. “You and me both, Sam.”

You laugh. “And here I am: a  _librarian_. I feel like a sore thumb.”

“Hey,” Steve wags a finger at you, “There’s no such thing as ‘just a librarian’.”

“Yeah,” Nat says, even as she steps to the curb to throw out her hand for the bus, “Librarians will be our saviours when the apocalypse comes.”

“Care to tell my employers that? I could do with a raise…”

The brakes hiss as the double-decker lumbers to a stop and the doors slide open. Sam steps aside to allow you and Nat on first. You pay your fare and follow her to the back seats.

“So are you and Sam taking the same module as those two?”

Nat nods as she gracefully sits by the window.

“We’ve got salsa.”

“And it’s not as bad as she says,” Sam cuts in, dropping into the seat beside you. Nat  _tsks_.

“You just like it because you like having it easy.”

“Oh yeah, because that’s so  _foolish_ , having two hours a week where all you have to remember is  _basic, basic, turn, basic_ …”

You snigger. “Maybe I should sign up for salsa. I don’t think Wanda knows what  _easy_  is.”

“Wanda’s the hot teacher?” Sam asks; then raises his hands in surrender as you lift your eyebrows in a very pointed manner. “I’m just going off the information I’ve been given!”

“Which one of you has been describing Wanda as hot?” You demand, as Steve and James make their way down the aisle (Steve has to duck his head to avoid hitting it on the ceiling).

“I was speaking objectively, Y/N,” Steve says, “Just painting an accurate picture for them.”

You frown, but Nat smirks.

“You don’t have to worry about Steve, Y/N, he’s already spoken for.”

Steve rolls his eyes as he drops into the seat in front of you both, but you can tell by the way his expression has closed up that Nat’s hit a nerve.

“Don’t tease him about Peggy, Nat,” James says, mildly, “It’s not kind.”

“Yeah,” Steve seems to recover, and his tone lightens up, “It’s not like all of us get to spend seven hours a week in the presence of such beauty.”

“Um,” Sam scoffs, “You see me every day.”

They all laugh, you included.

“Well, I’m glad your beauty quota is filled, because Wanda is very much off-limits.”

“She have a partner?” Sam asks, and you twist your lip.

“Not yet. But she will, if I have anything to do with it.”

Nat raises one eyebrow. “Sounds intriguing.”

“Ah, it’s just this guy we see at competitions. He heads up Vision Studios, on the other side of town. He’s literally perfect for her.” You can’t help but roll your eyes just thinking about the two of them. Wanda laughs more with Luis than anyone else, but somehow they never seem to make that final push to exchanging numbers and going on an actual date. “One day they’ll see sense.”

Steve leans across to pat James’ knee consolingly and takes on the tone of a stereotypical maiden aunt. “Shame about that, Buck. Still, I’m sure you’ll find someone.”

James leans back, his mouth twisting into a grin. “She’s not really my type,” Is all he says.

“Are competitions a regular thing, then?” Nat addresses you, and you nod.

“Fairly. Wanda puts on more sessions when they’re coming up. I think our next one is in ten weeks or so?” You shrug. “Quite a way off, anyway. How does it work in the Academy?”

“We have auditions,” Steve answers, “For professional companies. They come through twice a year.”

You can’t hide your surprise. “That sounds pretty serious. Are you all going professional then?”

The four of them exchange looks. You huff a little. “You’re speaking to uninitiated, here!”

“Yes,” James answers, shortly.

“If we can,” Sam interjects, wryly.

“There’s no  _if_  about it,” Nat says.

“Not for our child-prodigy here-” Steve teases, and gets a whack on the arm.

“If you  _old men_  quit grumbling every once in a while-”

“Old men! You’d better watch your back, Romanoff-”

“Literally, you’ll probably end up with Steve for your duet,” Sam points out.

From the corner, James snorts. “I wouldn’t risk it, Stevie, she could seriously hurt you.”

“ _If_  you’re finished,” You say, standing up, “It’s nearly our stop, you two.” You turn back to wave at Sam and Nat. “Guess I’ll see you around?”

Nat gives you a small smile and Sam waves back as Steve and James get to their feet.

“Keep them in check, Y/N!” Nat calls, and a laugh bubbles out of you before you can stop it. Keep them in check. As if you could  _ever_.

~~~

“Alright!” You push your sweaty hair off your forehead as Wanda calls the class to order. “As you may have noticed, this week we’re in the unusual position of having too many leads! So, as a special treat, I’m going to have you rotate partners!” The answering groan of protest doesn’t have the slightest effect on her gleeful expression. “It is good for you! Keeps you on your toes. We’ll have a break, then follows can move one to the left.”

You send a look of heartfelt misery her way, and she laughs.

“Like I said, it’s good for you, Y/N!”

“Yeah, suck it up, Y/N,” Clint messes your hair as he passes, and you make a half-hearted sound of outrage. “Got to stop being the teacher’s pet at some point.”

“Not funny,” You say, but you follow him off the floor anyway. “And at least I’m not speaking as an individual who  _lost at crazy golf_ …”

“Now  _that_ ,” Clint glares at you, “Was not funny.”

You breeze past him to fetch your water bottle. “I’ll have you know that I’m hilarious.”

“It was pretty funny.” Steve walks past to where he had stashed his bag. You’d all walked in together: it had been kind of impossible to put your stuff separately. To your own surprise, the idea of spending further time in their company wasn’t entirely horrific. It was like there was a whole new side to them when they were around their friends. There was  _certainly_  a whole new side to James. Although he seemed to have clammed up again when he entered the studio, you’d been sneaking glances at the pair of them when you’d had the opportunity, and they’d clearly been practicing. Perhaps they did care a little more than they’d initially let on.

“Hey!” Clint protests, pointing a finger at Steve. “You don’t even know my name and you’re ganging up on me.”

“Ah, sorry?”

Clint cracks a smile. “It’s Clint.” He adds in the signed spelling. “Just remember that I’m always the funny one, and Y/N is not.”

“All the evidence would appear to be to the contrary,” Comes a quiet voice, and you look to one side to see James watching you both. Clint glares theatrically at him.

“You are fighting a  _losing_  battle, my friend.”

“OK!” Wanda’s voice breaks up their little debate. “Back to it!”

You stride back out into the centre of the room and try to shake off the uncomfortable feeling in your midriff that sparked when James took your side.

Wanda shakes her head in amusement. “Did you all think I wouldn’t notice if you just went back to the same partners? Come on! Step outside your comfort zones!”

Everyone reluctantly separates and all the follows move clockwise around the two lines of leads. You end up with Dylan, which is a relief. What’s more concerning is that James is only two spaces along- which means you’ll probably end up dancing with him. Today. Again, you squash down the tickly feeling.

“You can block with this partner- I’ll come around and correct your technique- then we’ll run through from the start.” Wanda looks positively gleeful at the glares most of her students shoot her way. “Off you go!”

Blocking passes without incident. Wanda incessantly corrects your wrists and hands (“Extend, Y/N! All the way to the end of the line!”) before sending you on to dance with Mo. Out of the corner of your eye, you can see James stood to one side, waiting out his turn without a partner.

“To music, this time! Remember, I want to see clean shapes.”

The hum flares out from the speakers as the song begins.

_“Waiting for the time to pass you by, hope the wind of change will change your mind,_

_I could give a thousand reasons why…”_

You slide into the isolations, playing with the positioning so it exactly mirrors Mo’s.

_“All you have to do is stay,_

_A minute,_

_Just take your time._

_The clock is ticking,_

_So stay.”_

You turn to face one another, a smile forming on your face at the feeling of the movements flowing so easily.

_“All you have to do is wait,_

_A second,_

_Your hands,_

_On mine…”_

You join hands, then follow Mo’s grip to his opposite shoulder.

“ _The clock is ticking,_

_So stay-”_

You slide your fingertips down Mo’s arm and hold onto his wrist, and as the  _tick-tick-tick_  of the beat rings out, you drop into the backbend.

Except- Mo doesn’t have your arm. For the briefest of moments, your balance hovers, tilted way beyond your centre of gravity- and then Mo’s wrist slides out of your grasp and you drop backwards with a thud. In the handful of heartbeats before you hit the ground, you frantically try to realign your neck and shoulders, trying to prevent your head from hitting the floor first; but there’s a sharp twinge of pain from your hips as gravity forces them to fold over at an angle you’re not flexible enough to handle and you let out a yelp an instant before you slam down on your back.

“Y/N?!”

“Are you OK?!”

The music stops. You’re only immediately aware of two things: the fact that there seem to be literal waves from the impact rippling through your skull, and that all the breath has been jolted from your chest. You wheeze, flat out like a stranded turtle, as Mo leans over you on one side and Wanda on the other.

“I’m so sorry,” Mo gasps, “I just missed the timing-”

“You alright down there?” Clint crouches down by your head, and Pepper peers anxiously at you.

The air seems to be filtering back into your lungs, and you wince as you uncurl your legs. “Been better,” You manage to say, “But I don’t think it’s a hospital job.”

“I don’t know,” James’ voice filters into your ears, “She hit her head pretty hard.”

You’d like to complain, but your brain still feels like it’s rattling between your ears. A furrow appears between Wanda’s eyebrows.

“Can you sit up?” She asks. You shove yourself up on your elbows, grimacing at the ache already settling in your shoulders.

“Look, not dead.”  _Christ_. Your head  _really_  hurts; though you don’t mention that to Wanda. She’s worried enough as it is. You carefully look around.

“Alright.” James kneels down beside you. “Recite the days of the week backwards?”

“What?” You look at him incredulously.

“We get taught that when we’re checking for concussion, Y/N,” Steve says, somewhere to your left. “Ballet dancers fall over a lot.”

You snort, but try to focus. “Uh, Sunday, Saturday, Friday, Wednesday… Tuesday, Monday.”

James nods. Clearly your encounter with the floor has knocked you silly, because his eyes seem astonishingly soft. “And now count backwards from twenty?”

“Are you  _serious_?”

James just looks at you, and you crack.

“Fine. Twenty, nineteen, eighteen…”

You reach zero without any mistakes, and James finally seems satisfied.

“Are we content that I don’t have a brain injury?” You grouse, and Mo offers you a hand up (still looking guilty, even though Pepper has reassured him at least three times that it was just an honest mistake). Wanda mock-shudders.

“Don’t even joke about it, Y/N. And you’re sitting out the rest of the session. I’m not having you damaging yourself any further.”

Again, you want to protest- but the pain in your head rivals a period cramp, and you’re not that much of a martyr. You nod (trying not to make the movement too severe) and shuffle over to the wall.

“I’ll sit out with her,” James offers, and you look up in surprise- but Wanda’s already nodding.

“Just in case I pass out?” You joke as he walks towards you. You carefully slide down to sit with the mirror against your back.

“Like Wanda says, don’t joke about it.” He sits a foot or so away as Wanda gets the class underway again. “Sure you’re OK?”

Your initial instinct is to reply with something snarky, but there’s genuine concern behind the question. Instead, you smile (well, it’s more of a grimace) and lift a hand to the back of your head.

“I’ve got the mother of all headaches and I don’t think my hips will be on speaking terms with me for a few days, but yeah. Like I said, not dead.”

He smiles with one side of his mouth. “Always a positive.”

You laugh softly as Wanda starts the music again.

“You know, you should do some stretches.” James speaks up over the music. “In general. It will help if you ever get concertinaed up again.”

You shrug. “I probably should. I’m just never focused enough to do them.” Or, rather, you can’t be bothered. “Your classmates would probably tear me limb from limb for speaking such heresy.”

James snorts and shakes his head slightly. Then he resumes his serious expression. “I can show you a couple, if you want?”

You’re so surprised, you almost forget to breathe. To cover your shock, you fall back on humour: you eye him suspiciously and ask, “How much will they hurt?”

“They’re supposed to hurt, Y/N,” He says, with more than a touch of sarcasm, “That’s how you know they’re working.”

You tilt your head back to rest gently against the mirror and ignore the fizzing in your stomach. “Fine. But, fair warning, I’ll probably whine a lot.”

James raises his eyes to the ceiling. “What have I let myself in for?”

“What’s that phrase? No take-backs.”

He pulls a face at you, and you have to fight the urge to stick out your tongue. James then wisely decides to change the subject.

“Is the studio space free before the class?”

“Yeah. Wanda sometimes runs her extra practices from four.”

James nods, looking pensive. Before you can ask why, though, Wanda’s announcing the end of the class and Pepper, Clint and Steve are heading your way.

“How’s the invalid?” Clint asks, and you make an ineffectual swat at his ankle. Pepper laughs.

“I think that means she’s fine.”

Besides the throbbing in your skull, you  _are_  fine; but that doesn’t stop Steve and James insisting you catch the bus home with them, and, when you hop off at your stop, Steve announces that they’re walking you to your door.

“ _Steve_ ,” You say, trying to sound firm, but he shakes his head in a self-righteous manner whilst James looks on, amused.

“No, I won’t hear it! Can you imagine the guilt we’d feel if you collapsed out of sight round the corner?”

“It’s not like it’s far,” James says, in a mollifying voice, and you roll your eyes dramatically before gesturing for them to fall in beside you.

“If this carries on next week, I will not be impressed,” You warn. Steve nods seriously.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“ _Honestly_.” The exasperation in your tone sets James off into quiet giggles. “Look, here we are, and I’m still alive and kicking.” You stop outside the narrow door that leads up to your one-bed flat.

“Wait,” James says, before you can climb the steps, “You live alone?”

“Yes,” You say, trying to keep the suspicion out of your voice. OK, they seem nice- but you still barely know them. James holds up his hands in a conciliatory gesture.

“Just- it’s probably paranoia, but it would be nice to know that you’re up in the morning.”

“What, in case you need to break down the door and take me to A&E?” That seems like a very remote possibility, but Steve’s nodding.

“That’s a good point, Buck- have you got your phone on you?”

James fishes in his pocket and pulls it out, tapping in the passcode before holding it out to you.

“Don’t look at us like that,” Steve says, in that gentle teasing tone of voice, “We’re just concerned for your safety.”

“You’re worse than my mother, that’s what you are,” You mutter, but you acquiesce and take the phone. After tapping in your number, you hand it back. “There. Now that you have a way to be  _quite sure_ I’m not dead, I’ll say goodnight.”

Steve smiles at you, and even James’ face seems to have relaxed. “Goodnight, Y/N.” The pair of them don’t move. You raise an eyebrow. Steve just smiles wider. “Look, we’re going to see you safely inside.”

“You,” You say, vehemently, “Are both  _ridiculous_.” You jam your key in the lock, swing the door theatrically wide and hop over the threshold. “Satisfied?”

“Goodnight, Y/N!”

Rolling your eyes for their benefit, you softly shut the door and turn the lock. Then you start up the stairs, with your mind firmly fixed on a paracetamol, a glass of water and the soft sheets of your bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you're enjoying peeps!


	4. There Will Come A Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There Will Come A Time- Noah and the Whale

The familiar, discordant chimes of your alarm shrill in your ears and you fumble for your phone without even opening your eyes.

“Shut up,” You grumble, as the smooth edges slip out of your fingertips for the third time. “Just,  _ugh_ ,  _shush_.”

Reluctantly, you crack open one eye and finally manage to stab down on the glowing screen. Silence at last. Unfortunately, you know you can’t roll over and go back to sleep: not unless you want to be late for work. You let out another heartfelt groan and force your eyes all the way open.

The screen of your phone is still lit up, showing two message notifications. You frown and swipe them open. One from your mum, asking when she can call- you quickly type out a reply suggesting this afternoon- and one from a number you don’t recognise.

**Steve says that if you don’t reply by 12 we’re breaking down the door**

Everything suddenly comes rushing back. Instinctively, you drop your phone on the covers and reach for the back of your head, wincing when your fingertips encounter a sizeable lump. Wriggling your shoulders merits the same reaction, and moving your legs sends a twinge through your hips. General conclusion:  _ouch_. Still, not dead.

_“Always a positive,”_  A dry voice rings through your memories, and you almost smile. Then you reach for your phone again.

**No need to call in the cavalry, I’m up**

Writing it out is kind of a contractual obligation; you hit send, then struggle out from underneath the duvet and drag yourself into the bathroom.

Thankfully, the warmth of the shower spray (unpredictable and wavering as it is) helps soothe your angry muscles, and you dress feeling fairly awake. Then you have to dash out of the bathroom to silence the second alarm that you always set, intended to either jerk you out of a sneaky second snooze, or warn you that you have half an hour before you need to leave the house. To your surprise, another two messages have come through whilst you were turning yourself into a human being. One from mum, confirming your time, and another one from James.

**That’s a relief I don’t have the energy to be a battering ram**

A slight pulse of warmth seems to flare deep inside your chest. You quickly save his number to your contacts before tapping out a reply.

**Y: Who has the energy to do anything this early in the morning?**

Which is a good point. You need caffeine. And breakfast. And then you need to get a move on. Your phone buzzes as you click the switch on the kettle.

**J: Steve**

Even as you read that message, another comes through.

**J: He’s a morning person its awful**

You can picture that: a small smile curls at the corner of your mouth.

**Y: I’m truly sorry for you**

The next text doesn’t come through until you’re almost out of the door.

**J: Sympathy is appreciated**

**J: Its like living with a puppy half the time**

Again, that warm feeling: but you have somewhere to be.

**Y: As someone who lives alone, that actually sounds nice**

**Y: But I have to get to work**

You hesitate, stuck on whether you should type what you really want to say- but before you can decide, James has replied.

**J: Have fun**

**J: Talk to you when I’m out of class**

At that tiny handful of words, your heart seems to rise a few inches in your ribcage. You shut the door, still smiling, and stride off to the bus stop.

~~

“You’re looking happy,” Lola comments, the instant you walk through the door.  _Busted_. You sigh and wonder if it’s feasible to keep deflecting questions until the end of the day- but Lola is nothing if not persistent. She’s also one of your best work friends. You raise your hands in defeat and drop into your office chair.

“Don’t get too excited,” You say, in a warning tone, “But,  _newsflash_ -” You try to imbue the word with a healthy amount of sarcasm, “-There’s a cute guy who’s started Wednesday classes.”

Lola’s eyes light up. She drops her chin onto her hand and fixes you with a look of keen interest.

“Do tell!”

“Ugh,” You wave her away, laughing, “I only met him last week. And I didn’t even like him then.”

“But you like him  _now_?!” Lola wiggles her eyebrows at you again, and you can’t help but giggle even more.

“Stop! But yes, he’s apparently not as much of a jerk as I thought he was.”

“Wonderful.” Lola’s smug grin is practically taking up all of her face. “So, when’s your first date?”

You gawp at her. “Lola, I met him  _last week_. It’s more that…” You trail off, before making sure your tone is sufficiently casual, “It’s more that he’s texting back.”

Lola nods in sympathy. You’ve both had your fair share of non-starting relationships.

“Still, that’s a good start!” She claps her hands together. “I’ll expect every detail.”

You roll your eyes. “As if I could avoid it.” From behind you, your computer (ancient, slow thing that it is) finally makes the chime that signifies you’ve logged in and you spin your chair to face the screen. You already have four emails from four different professors, all asking after different books. You sigh and drag your mind back into focus. Today, at least, there won’t be time for daydreaming.

~~

That evening, you let yourself back into your flat with your phone still held up to your ear as your mum hangs up. Your conversation had been the usual: the run-down on work, whether you were eating, whether you were being a sufficiently sociable human being. Seeing as you could confidently answer all those questions with yes, it was just a pleasant chat rather than an uncomfortable interrogation. Honestly, it’s worth making an effort with life in general just for that.

You drop your possessions on the ratty bean bag on the corner and head for the fridge. You’re starving: thankfully, you have the last of the soup you made last week stashed away. Just as you’re decanting it from Tupperware to saucepan, your phone buzzes.

**J: Good day?**

You chew on your bottom lip, fighting yet another smile. This was  _past_  the point of ridiculous. Nevertheless, you balance your phone in one hand whilst stirring a wooden spoon with the other.

**Y: I’ve had worse**

**Y: You?**

No more than a handful of seconds pass before you get a reply.

**J: I’ve had worse**

**J: Faosedddlks**

Before you can even form a confused frown, your screen lights up with an incoming call. From James. You stifle the lurch in your abdomen, before tapping accept and lifting the phone to your cheek. “Hello?”

“Hey, Y/N!”

“Oh. Steve?” You can feel your eyebrows drawing together. “Isn’t this James’ phone?”

“Yes!” An abrupt yell echoes down the line; it sounds a lot like James.

“Yeah,” Steve says, sounding unconcerned, “Just wanted to let you know that we’re having a film night on Saturday- us, Nat and Sam, maybe a couple of other people, and we were wondering if you wanted to join?”

“Uh,” You stall for a moment, surprised by the offer, then pull yourself together. “Sure, why not? Do I need to bring anything?”

“What? No! No, not unless you want to.”

“OK. Steve, sorry-” You carefully place the spoon on the side and try to turn off the hob one-handed, “-can I put you on loudspeaker? My soup’s just ready-”

“Oh, don’t worry about it. See you on Saturday, Y/N!” There’s a scuffling noise, then the line goes dead. You quickly drop it on the counter and turn your attention to the saucepan.

**J: Sorry about that**

**J: Steve has a loose definition of personal space**

You get the text just as you sit down to eat.

**Y: No worries**

**Y: I have a few friends like that**

Lola, for one. Wanda, for another. Clint, come to think of it, for a third. Then a question occurs to you, and you type out a new message.

**Y: What time is it on Sat?**

The reply is nearly instantaneous.

**J: Steve says 7**

You ignore the twisting excitement already building in your stomach.

**Y: I’ll be there**

~~

It’s Saturday evening, and you’re stood on the pavement two streets along from your flat staring up at an imposing red-brick building. The Academy is situated in the rows of old, classy town-houses tucked behind ornate railings at the end of Blackhill Road. Craning your neck, you can see warm yellow light spilling from a window on the second-storey. The faint sound of piano music is just audible.

The door at the top of the steps swings open.

“Hey, Y/N!” Nat smiles at you. She’s dressed in leggings and an oversized sweater with the word  _Boss_  printed in capital letters on the front. “Come in!”

You climb up to join her. The door closes behind you and you take in what must be the reception. There’s a shiny wooden desk in the corner, a handful of chairs against one wall, and framed photographs of dancers caught in graceful motion are everywhere you look. Nat, evidently inured to the sight, pays no attention to your gawping and marches to a discreet door tucked in the corner, marked ‘Private’.

“You coming?”

Blinking, you shake yourself out of your reverie and follow her into a narrow passage.

“Used to be the servants’ stairs. Watch your step, they’re pretty steep.”

The only light comes from a dingy bulb on an upper landing, and you take Nat’s advice, treading carefully behind her. “This is fancier than I thought,” You say. “I thought it would be like- like a school, I guess.”

“Oh, the studios aren’t so nice,” Nat says, airily, “But they’re an extension out the back of the house. All the live-in students get rooms in here, though. Makes up for the terrible heating and creaky floorboards.”

“My flat just has the heating and the floorboards,” You joke, and Nat laughs.

“Unfortunately the biggest room is the attic, so you always have a climb to get to the common room.”

“Yeah,” You exaggerate the way your breath is wheezing, “I’d noticed.”

“Fury’s always telling us it’s good for our stamina.”

“Well, the civilians could do with a lift,” You joke. Eventually, though, you manage to make it to the top of the stairs (and, to your credit, you don’t need to lean against the wall to recover. Just). Nat pushes open yet another door, and noise and soft light spills out into the stairwell.

“Look who I found,” She calls, and you step through into what must be the Academy’s student common room.

The room is long and low-ceilinged, with multiple skylights set behind the beams letting in the last of the evening sunshine. Golden fairy-lights are strung up on every surface, emitting a gentle glow. On your left is a tiny counter, with a microwave, kettle and toaster ranged beneath a rack of chipped mugs. On your right are a set of speakers and a book shelf. A small TV is set on a table at the far end of the room, surrounded by a collection of battered chairs, beanbags and one low couch: and ranged around it are James, Steve, Sam, and several people you don’t recognise.

“Y/N! You made it up the stairs!” Steve waves at you, and you grin.

“Yeah, you certainly made me work hard enough to get here.” You follow Nat down the room towards them. You try not to let your eyes linger on James, although it’s hard when he’s tilted his head to look at you, his hair mussed on one side from where he’s been leaning against the back of the armchair.

“Nice of you to drop in,” Sam grins. He’s sprawled on one end of the couch. It’s a slightly strange experience to see them all in casual clothes: somehow, you’ve never pictured them wearing something as relaxed as a hoody, but it is so. James raises a hand and gives you that crooked smile.

“Good to see you.”

You barely have time to smile in return before Steve is half-rising from his seat to introduce you to everyone else.

“So, this is Holly, Sef, Simren and Charlie. We have classes together.”

There are a chorus of greetings, and you nod in return, mentally trying to hold onto their names.

“Shove up, you three,” Nat demands, marching round and dropping onto the cushions. “Somebody else can put the film on.” You carefully squeeze in beside her as Charlie, a lanky Asian guy, scrambles to his feet and shoves a DVD into the slot. James had told you on Friday that they were part-way through a Harry Potter marathon, and you relax as the familiar music soars out from the TV. A handful of people are already singing along. You sneak a glance at James, and see that his mouth is twitching. The thought makes you smile, and you turn your attention back to the film.

Before you know it, the end credits are rolling: Harry’s killed the basilisk and saved the day, to an off-screen accompaniment of quotes, snarky observations and general humour. You’re glad you didn’t put on any mascara- several times you’ve laughed so hard there have been tears leaking from the corners of your eyes.

When the screen finally goes dark, you shift in your seat and carefully stretch. Whilst you’ve been watching, the sky outside has darkened. Sef gets to her feet and starts pulling down the blinds.

“Thanks for having me,” You say, to nobody in particular, sitting up.

“It was fun!”

“Yeah, it was nice to meet you, Y/N.”

You smile across at Holly and Simren. “You, too.”

Steve jumps to his feet and offers you a hand up. “Before you even start complaining, we’re walking you home.” At your thunderous frown, he assumes a pleading expression. “It’s dark!”

“There could be robbers,” Nat interjects, and you turn to glare at her, too.

“Don’t gang up on me.”

She just smirks up at you.

“Fine,” You sigh, “Who else is joining my bodyguard detail?”

“I’ll come.” James shrugs his way out of his chair and stretches all the way out, his hands grazing the ceiling. You try not to react.

“Anyone else coming for a walk?” Steve asks. Sam shakes his head.

“Nah, man. I’m keeping the corner spot for as long as I’ve got it.”

Nat’s already elongating to take up the space you and Steve have vacated. Steve snorts at her. “Guess that answers that question. Right, let’s go.”

The three of you walk back across the common room and start down the stairs.

“So are you up for joining us on the regular?” Steve asks. “It’s nice to see people who don’t also live with you every once in a while.”

“Ah,” You snicker, “I’m only here for the window dressing, I see how it is. But sorry, next week…” You trail off into thought.

“Next week?” James prompts.

“Sorry- it’s just that I was planning to have a night in with Wanda and Pepper, but- I don’t want to presume on your hospitality or anything-”

“They’re welcome!” Steve says, instantly, “More the merrier, right, Buck?”

“Sure,” James says. “Nice to have some new faces.”

“I’ll just check with them, but I’m sure they’ll be down.” You make a mental note to text them both later. You’ve finally reached the bottom of the stairs and push through the door, before drawing up short: two people are stood in the reception, and they both seem to practically radiate authority.

“Rogers. Barnes.” The imposing dark-skinned man addresses your companions. “Heading out?”

“Yes, sir,” Steve answers. “Just walking Y/N home.”

“Be sure to sign out,” The woman standing beside him warns. Steve seems to straighten up.

“Yes, ma’am.”

A small smile touches the brunette’s lips.

“Just Miss Carter, Rogers.”

“Sure, Miss Carter,” James interjects, politely. “We’ll just sign out.” He pats Steve on the shoulder before retrieving a register from the far side of the desk and scribbling down their names. Miss Carter and her companion disappear through the double doors at the back of the room, and you notice Steve relaxing. It’s not until the three of you are safely out on the street that you ask your question.

“Who was that?”

“That’s Director Fury. He runs the Academy. And Miss Carter, who takes the Advanced Ballet Class.”

“Oh.  _Oh_.” You glance at Steve, your brain putting two and two together. “They’re- um, kind of scary?”

James snorts. “You’re not kidding. Although Mr T is worse.”

“He’s our teacher,” Steve tells you, apparently recovering his voice. “And yeah, he kind of is.”

“Why?” You can’t help a note of teasing sliding into your voice. “Is he a tyrant?”

“Oh, worse than that,” James smirks, “He’s  _perfect_. So, he expects nothing less from us, too.”

You shudder theatrically. “He sounds like Wanda.”

“Is she really that bad?” James sounds sceptical.

“Yes! Just you wait until we’re in the run up to a competition. She’s terrifying, trust me.”

“We’ll take your word for it.” You feel like Steve is just humouring you, but they’ll see. Wanda takes absolutely no prisoners.

“Have you both been practicing?” You ask, as the three of you cross over the road to enter your street.

Steve snorts. “We have to take it in turns. There’s not enough floor-space in our dorm for us both to dance at the same time.”

“So you admit that commercial dance has  _some_  worth, then?” You instantly seize your opportunity, grinning broadly at James’ exasperated expression.

“You know, I think that  _dance hipster_  comment really stung his pride, Y/N-” Steve starts, right before James pushes him off the curb.

“Good,” You say, smugly, “If it turns him from a hipster into a nerd, I’ll be satisfied.”

“ _Now_  I get why you invited her,” James growls, “So that you have someone to gang up on me with.”

“Glad to be of service.” You stick out your tongue at him as Steve laughs. “And thank you, once again, for your assistance-” You’ve reached your flat, “- And I’ll see you both on Wednesday?”

“See you, kid!” Steve calls, now leaping around trying to dodge James’ attempts to pull him into a headlock. Laughing, you wave at the pair of them, before hopping into the porch and unlocking the door, their shouts and curses ringing in your ears.


	5. Weapon of Choice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Weapon of Choice- Fatboy Slim

“Alright, kids!” Wanda claps her hands together to signal that warm-ups are over. “We’ll move onto a new routine today! This will be the girls’ chance to have the stage, so guys-” She makes a sweeping gesture, “- Vacate the floor, please! Clint, take them through the blocking we did for the  _So Good_  routine? You can use the corner.”

Clint pulls a face but nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

The guys troop off, leaving the centre to the eight girls and Wanda.

“This is the music we will be dancing to!” Wanda skips across to the sound system and clicks a few keys on her laptop. A familiar funk tune blasts out of the speakers, and you grin.

“ _Don’t be shocked_

_By the tone_

_Of my voice._

_Check out my new weapon,_

_Weapon of choice…”_

You automatically start moving your hips in time with the beat of the song. Wanda lets it play for a few bars more before shutting it off and moving back to stand in front of you all.

“We’ll tie it into the end of  _Stay_  at the end of the session, if we get time, but for now we’ll block through the moves. Diamond formation, please!”

For the next half an hour, Wanda painstakingly takes you through her plan for the next segment of your competition routine. It’s full of familiar sequences and forms, and you feel pretty confident that you’ll be able to learn it by next week. By the time you’re running through it with music alongside, you’re able to hit about three-quarters of the beats without too much mental effort. Every so often, you catch James watching you out of the corner of your eye, and you have to fight down a smile.

You’ve been texting, on and off, for most of the week: friendly conversation about silly things, like which flavour of popcorn was best (James thought it was salty, which was obviously wrong) and discussing cute dogs you encountered on your walk to and from work. It was… nice. Surprisingly so. When you’d walked to the bus stop earlier that evening, you had found your heart rising in anticipation, rather than dread. Funny how quickly things could turn around.

“We have time for it once more!” Wanda calls, to over-exaggerated groans from her class. She grins and the guys (who finished up five minutes ago) laugh. “Suck it up! I want it to be more convincing from all of you.”

From the wall where the guys are sitting, there’s a collection of strangled noises. A blush (and a smug smile) crawls its way across your face. Wanda’s routines are always incredibly dirty, particularly the girls’ sections: she regularly has you all kneeling on the floor, bouncing up and down with teasing grins on your faces. Wanda laughs.

“Only going to get worse, boys. From the top!”

You finish the class with sweat clinging to the small of your back, and your hair badly needs a wash. All the same, you feel flushed with serotonin and the left-over trickles of adrenaline, and you smile as you drain your water bottle dry. This is the addictive high of dancing, and you revel in it.

“Y/N?” You spin around to see James. “I can quickly show you some stretches now, while we still have the space?”

“Oh!” You’d almost forgotten- last week seemed like a lifetime ago. “Yeah, sure. As long as you don’t break me.”

“I’ll do my best,” He says solemnly, then backs away from the wall to a clear spot. “OK, sit down.”

He gracefully folds himself into a cross-legged position and you drop down in front of him.

“Sitting?” You joke. “And I thought this was supposed to be hard.”

James rolls his eyes. “Back straight, feet flat on the floor with your knees up.” You comply, glancing at the mirror to check your posture. “Now let your knees fall to the side, keeping your feet pressed together, then pull your heels as close as you can.”

“Ah,” A sharp twinge pings through your hips as you follow his instructions.

“ _Without_  hurting yourself,” James warns. “Then just bounce your knees towards the floor. It will help loosen up your inner thigh.”

“You’re not kidding,” You hiss, feeling a sharp tug in the aforementioned muscles with each motion. When you look over at James, you see that his knees are pressed flat to the floor without apparent effort. Of  _course_.

“Stretching?” Steve comes over, “Did you pull something?”

James shakes his head, a glint of mischief sparking in his pale eyes. “Just trying to make Y/N into slightly less of a cardboard figurine.”

“ _Cardboard figurine_ ,” You splutter, then aggressively bounce your knees and wince. James looks up at Steve as if to say,  _point proven_.

“Look, being a piece of elastic isn’t everything,” You grumble.

“Actually, it’s not good for your muscles if you don’t stretch them,” Steve says, mildly, and you roll your eyes.

“Having fun?” Clint asks. Pepper looks like she’s stifling giggles.

“ _No_ -” You start to say, vehemently, but Wanda interrupts.

“As thrilled as I am that you’ve managed to get Y/N to actually stretch for once in her life, I need to lock up the studio.”

“Sorry, Wanda!” You gladly jump to your feet and start pulling off your trainers.

“You’ll have more time next week,” She says, beginning to switch off the lights. “But Pietro’s coming for dinner.”

“Oh, yeah! Give him my best.” You’ve met Wanda’s brother a few times- he comes to competitions sometimes- and he’s as sweet as his sister. She flashes you a quick smile.

“Will do.”

The five of you file out of the door and Wanda closes it behind you. Clint rolls his shoulders.

“When do Saturday sessions start, Wanda?”

“Ah, probably in a fortnight? I know people are busy.”

“As if we’d rather be anywhere else,” Pepper teases, and you snort.

“True.” You’ve reached the outer door. “See you next week, Clint!”

Pepper pulls you into a brief hug. “See you on Saturday!” She turns to Steve and James. “Thanks for inviting me, by the way.”

Steve nods politely. “It was the least we could do, after hijacking Y/N’s evening.”

“Yeah, it’ll be fun,” Wanda chimes in, pulling the door shut. “See you then!” Your friends walk off down the road.

“Bus or walking?” Steve asks. You tilt your head, considering the mild air and the overcast sky.

“Walking, if that’s OK with you two?”

“Good with me,” James says, and that tiny affirmation sends the smallest jolt through your heart.

“Wonderful,” You say, and you really mean it, as the three of you set off side by side, heading in the direction of home.


	6. Came Here For Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Came Here For Love- Sigala, Ella Eyre

“Why is it,” You grumble, hopping about on one foot, “That fluff always collects on the soles of tights even though you wash them?”

“I highly doubt anyone’s going to be looking at your feet, Y/N,” Wanda calls from the bathroom, and Pepper nods her head in agreement. You sigh and give up.

“Probably.”

“Pepper…” Wanda’s voice floats back in, “Please find out why she’s stressing so much. I can’t take it for no reason.”

“What-  _no_. No-” You start to clam up, but Pepper shifts on the beanbag and fixes you with a piercing stare.

“She’s right, Y/N. Something’s up.” When you sigh uncomfortably, Pepper touches your arm. “You can tell us!”

You suppose you can: but, all the same, you’re never keen on making yourself more vulnerable than you have to be.  _It’s just a silly crush_ , you tell yourself, then force yourself to stop chewing your lip.

“It’s James,” You relent, “I mean, it’s nothing, but-” The end of your sentence is drowned out by a whoop as Wanda comes leaping back into the main room.

“I  _knew_  it! Pepper, you owe me a drink!”

“ _What_?!” You gasp, then make an ineffectual swat at Wanda as she bounds past. “You are the worst! I can’t believe you- you made a  _bet_  about this?”

“It was obvious something was going on,” Pepper makes an apologetic face, “But  _I_  thought it was just you making friends.”

“He got her to stretch, Pep,” Wanda says, smirking, “I’ve been trying to do that for two years.”

“Ugh,” You groan, “Please don’t say anything tonight. I’m just taking it slow.”

“Of course we won’t,” Pepper says, instantly. Wanda holds out for a moment longer, before relenting.

“Fine. We’ll do it your way.”

“Good,” You say, firmly. Your heart’s still pounding a little, but at the sight of your friends’ smiles, you can’t help but feel just a little bit optimistic, too.

Wanda and Pepper had been magnanimous about girls’ night being upstaged by an invite from the ballet school, but they both insisted on coming ‘round to yours before setting off. Thinking about it, they’d probably planned it, just to get a confession out of you.

“Are you ready to go?” Pepper said, getting to her feet. “It’s nearly quarter-to.”

“Yep, just let me get my shoes on.”

“Hold on!” Wanda yelps, dashing back out, “I forgot to do mascara!”

~~

This time, somebody’s already waiting on the steps of the Academy for you.

“Hey,” Sam raises a hand in greeting, “Guess who drew the short straw today… C’mon, let’s get up there. I’m worried they’re going to eat all the popcorn. I’m guessing one of you is Wanda, and the other is Pepper?”

“Wanda, Pepper-” You point to each in turn, “This is Sam.”

“There’s popcorn?” Wanda asks, pushing past you. “What are we waiting for?”

Sam snorts. “Glad you have your priorities straight. I would say ‘After you’, but you don’t know where you’re going- except for Y/N, of course.” He hops back up the steps and pushes through the door.

After struggling up the stairs (well, you and Pepper struggle; Wanda strides up them with the barest hint of effort), you walk into the common room with your heart lifting in anticipation. Steve is right by the door, staring anxiously at the microwave.

“Hey, Wanda! Pepper, Y/N, good to see you! I’m just trying to sort out the popcorn.” A volley of muted bangs explodes from the microwave as though on cue, and Steve curses softly.

“Come on,” Sam beckons you all over to the TV. “Oh no you don’t, Romanoff!”

Nat looks up from where she’s curled up in the corner of the couch.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Sam.” Her pale face is the picture of innocence. “Have I upset you?”

Sam narrows his eyes. “You’ll get what’s coming to you, Nat. One day.”

“There’s a storm coming, huh,” James snorts, walking down the room towards you. When his eyes graze yours, a small electric current seems to spark through your chest. “Hey.”

“Popcorn’s ready!” Steve crows, “I’m having the beanbag: Charlie, hop it.”

“Wait!” You say, “Can somebody point me in the direction of the toilet?”

“One flight down, first door on the right,” Nat says.

“Thanks!”

By the time you get back, everyone has arranged themselves comfortably on the available seating: and, to your instant suspicion, you find Nat, Pepper, Wanda and James crammed on the sofa.

“Come on, Y/N!” Wanda pats the extremely narrow space beside her. “You’re holding everyone up!”

_I know exactly what you’re doing_ , you think, fervently wishing Wanda were capable of telepathy. Because, on her other side, is James: looking insouciant and unfairly good-looking in the fading light. Hoping that your face isn’t too red, you carefully slot yourself into the gap and gingerly recline against the cushions.

Your brain appears to be reduced to the intelligence of a five-year-old; for a solid minute, all you can think is  _He’s so close_. You just have to turn your head, and he’s right there. Your legs are practically pressed together. Anxiously, you reach up to start fiddling with your hair. Wanda catches your hand and lays it back in your lap with a warning glance, and you sigh.

_This is fine. This is fine_.

When there’s a light touch on your shoulder you have to work very hard not to jump out of your skin. You turn your head to find James offering the bowl of popcorn.

“Thanks,” You say, then remember one of your earlier conversations. “What flavour?”

“Sweet and salty,” He says, mouth twisting ( _stop looking at his mouth!_ ). “So, half right.”

“Yeah. But the half you like is wrong,” You manage, and take the bowl from him. His eyebrows draw together, but a half-formed smile quirks at his lips.

“No, the half  _you_  like is wrong.”

You roll your eyes, and feel a strange, simultaneous sensation of both relaxing and being wound ever tighter.

“We’ve had this debate, Barnes. I’m right. Live with it.”

“Never.” In your peripheral vision, someone is sorting out the DVD- but all your attention is focused on James. He regards you for a minute, his expression growing a little more serious. His tone remains light, but there’s a slight hesitancy to his words. “You can call me Bucky, you know. I think we’re at that stage.”

Your heart jumps, then apparently starts dancing the Macarena. You have to bite down on your lip to fight the grin that wants to spread itself all over your face.

“Yeah,” You say, “I guess we are.”

Hedwig’s Theme slams out of the speakers to a cacophony of shouts and laughter, and your attention is wrenched back to the screen- but not so fast that you miss the small, secret smile that curls at James’-  _Bucky’s_ \- mouth when he thinks you’re no longer looking.


	7. Where the Sky Hangs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where the Sky Hangs- Passion Pit  
> Strip That Down- Liam Payne

The next week, an unexpected heatwave rolls across the country: weather forecasters fan themselves, insisting it’s just a flash in the pan, and the students stumbling into the library at all hours now carry sunglasses and moan about the missed opportunities outside. Trapped in your office during shifts, you can’t help but sympathise. Still, the discomfort is almost worth it for the moment you come through the door each evening, kicking off your shoes and pulling on a pair of shorts with the windows thrown open and music blasting from your laptop. A certain someone, however, is not enjoying it at all.

**B: I’m melting**

You’re slowly recalibrating your brain from  _James_  to  _Bucky_. Changing his name in your contacts helped a bit.

**B: I hate this**

**B: this is hell**

In fact, you get a message complaining about the heat pretty much every day. It’s like a regular touch-base; something to be expected. It makes you feel a whole different kind of warm inside.

On Wednesday, you manage to get the early shift, so you have plenty of time to come home and get ready before class. Half an hour before you leave, you get a group message from Wanda.

**W: shorts ladies!!!!**

You grin, relieved: the air con in the studio can’t really cope with these kind of temperatures. You wander across your flat and begin picking out your most breathable clothes (which happen to be very revealing. Not that you’re concerned about that. Not at all).

Ten minutes before you need to leave, you’re frantically texting Pepper.

**Y: is the purple sb too much??**

Then you pace anxiously waiting for a reply. You’re currently wearing the aforementioned purple sports bra- it’s one of your favourites, completely comfortable and a vibrant colour- and you can’t help but scrutinise it with every pass in the small square mirror by the door. Wanda always dances in a sports bra… But that’s different. That’s Wanda, who has abs of steel and body confidence a mile high. You’re  _you_.

**P: I’m sure it’s fine! I’m wearing my green one.**

You sigh, then yelp when you check the time. You don’t have time to change now, and anyway, at least you won’t be the only one. You grab your bag and hurtle out the door.

Outside, the sun is still beating down, despite the lateness of the evening. Even though you feel slightly self-conscious walking down the street with this much of you exposed, you’re glad to be dressed in lightweight clothes. To your relief, when you draw in sight of the bus stop, you can see that Nat is also dressed in a pair of black shorts and a crop top.

“Hey!” You stick your arm up and wave. Then you give a cheeky smile as Bucky turns towards you. “Enjoying the weather?”

“How can you even ask that?” He growls, and you laugh. Nat smiles brightly.

“Makes me feel almost human,” Sam says, “After being cooped up in the studio all day.”

“Good to get some vitamin D, Buck,” Steve claps his friend on the shoulder, and gets a swift jab below the ribcage for his trouble.

“You were in the studio all day? That sounds rough.” You adjust your bag on your shoulder as the bus comes grumbling up behind you.

“Yeah, things are pretty intense at the moment,” Steve says. “Big round of auditions coming up.”

You pull a sympathetic face, even as your stomach drops a few inches. As you walk to your spot at the back of the bus, the other four continuing to chat, you find yourself withdrawing from the conversation as a horrible, logical thought occurs to you. Auditions mean contracts; contracts mean jobs; and jobs mean- well, jobs mean them leaving. Mean  _Bucky_  leaving. To dance on the world’s stage. Of course, they’d said that they were intending to go professional- but, for whatever reason, the reality of that hadn’t sunk in.

_They would be leaving to pursue their dream_ , you tell yourself, firmly. That’s more important than anything. Certainly more important than any half-fledged imagining that had yet to happen between you and Bucky.

Something seizes hold of your heart at that moment. The sunshine flares through the window; Nat throws back her head and laughs, as Bucky looks on, grinning. The air feels warm as you breathe it in.

_I get caught up in your heart-strings,_

_Way up, where all of the sky hangs,_

_I’ll take all that I can get,_

_Just don’t make me go…_

And you decide to just let things run where they will. To take whatever chance that comes your way. Bucky looks at you, and the spark in his bright eyes makes you want to smile and jump to your feet and run all the way up to the moon. Surely that’s worth taking a risk on?

~~

Warmup and blocking passes in a blur, before you separate, once again, to review the routines you went over last week. All those hours practicing in front of the oven paid off-  _Weapon of Choice_  goes down without a hitch. Then Wanda’s calling for you all to come back together.

“Time to make those brains work for a change! Let’s go back to  _Stay_. Solo to start with- I don’t trust you that much.”

You snort, but your heart has kicked up a gear. It might be today…

“Get ready!” Wanda calls, then the music begins to play.

Wanda has a great deal of criticism to hand out after that first run-through, (“How many times must I tell you to extend, Y/N?!”) so it takes them a while longer to get to a state where she’s happy to partner you up. Then she leans back, folding her arms and scrutinising you all. Her gaze meets yours, and you recognise the glint within them all too well. It means trouble to come.

“Anna, are you happy to partner Steve? Y/N, I think you can partner with James. We’ve got time for it once more, people! Don’t let me down!”

Swallowing, you look for Bucky, who raises his eyebrows at you as though to say-  _would you look at that?_ You screw up your courage and walk over to him.

“Ready to have fun?” You ask, hoping your voice sounds normal. He ticks his head from side-to-side.

“I’ll do my best.”

“Just don’t drop me,” You joke, and that makes him crack a smile. Then Wanda’s telling you all to get in position and you’re hurrying to comply.

The first part is simple unison work- but the hardest thing about unison work is making it look perfectly in-sync. You find yourself forgetting your nerves as you scrutinise your reflection in the mirror, comparing it to Bucky’s every move. There’s something… Off.

The partner work is the same. You forget how close he is as you chew over the problem. Something just isn’t matching up. (The backbend goes off without a hitch, though, which is a relief). When you reach the end of the dance, you’re surprisingly deflated.

“You’re frowning,” Bucky says, but before you can answer him (not that you know  _how_  to answer him), Wanda waves her hands in the air.

“Excellent work, guys! I’ll leave the sound system on, you can dance to whatever you want. Or,” She fixes you with a stare, “Do some stretches. Whatever. I’ll be in the office if you need me.”

She turns on her heel and disappears through the door.

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice is puzzled, and you turn back to him. He’s looking at you like he’s trying to work you out. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No! No, it’s just…” You chew on your bottom lip, then turn back to the mirrors. “Run through that unison section again?”

The pair of you ignore the music playing as you examine your reflections through the moves; still, you can’t pinpoint what’s not right. Then, as you look off to the side, you spot Clint and Pepper practicing together, and it hits you like a train. You almost want to laugh out loud. Instead, you rub your hand across your sweaty face and stare up at Bucky’s face.

“OK- I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but you’re too stiff.”

“Huh?”

“I don’t mean flexible-stiff, I mean… Ugh, I don’t know how to phrase this without sounding like I’m in a Step Up movie. You need to let go! Like, look at this-” You drop into a squat and roll your hips easily in time to the beat. Bucky’s eyebrows draw further together as he watches you. “You should feel it. The music.”

Still nothing but confusion from Bucky. You sigh in exasperation.

“It’s like a sensation inside you. Like a fire burning up. Flaring out.”  _Still_  nothing. “I can’t believe you’re making me say all this ridiculous shi-izzle and it’s not getting anywhere!”

“No, I know what you mean,” Bucky says, immediately looking more apologetic, “I just- this isn’t my kind of music, maybe?”

“It’s not just that,” You say, realising something else. “You’re too stiff here.” You place your hand on your abdomen to illustrate. “Like, yeah, you need tension. But you need to be able to follow where the music leads. You’re not trying to impose your own will on the beat, you’re trusting in it.”

Bucky’s expression morphs into  _Really?_  You wave him away.

“Like I said, making me say all this  _ridiculous_  stuff. Clint!” You shout, frustrated. “Help me with this one!”

“My services are required?” Clint wanders over.

“He can’t  _feel_  the music,” You put your hands on your hips. “Please help. I’ve tried explaining it.”

Clint shakes his head, tuts, then effortlessly spins you round so you’re face to face with Bucky. “That’s because you can’t  _explain_  it, Y/N. Pep, put on that Liam Payne song, would you?”

“Clint,” You hiss, “This was  _not_ -”

“Relax, Y/N.” Clint’s grin does nothing to settle your nerves, not to mention having Bucky so close is throwing off your logic circuits anyway. “Just shut your eyes. Now, Bucky, I want you to copy what she does.”

“Simple as that?” Bucky sounds suspicious.

“Yep. Simple as that.”

“Now, Clint?” Pepper calls, and you look up at Bucky with the most apologetic expression you can muster.

“Now.”

The beat throbs out of the speakers.

_“You know I’ve been taking some time_

_And I’ve been keeping to myself_

_I had my eyes upon the prize_

_Ain’t watching anybody else…”_

You take a deep breath, trying to calm your nerves, then let your eyelids slide shut. And before you know it, the music has bloomed inside your abdomen and it’s directing your every move. Your hips swing, circle, jerk in time to the pulse of the drumbeat. Your arms sketch out embellishments. This is how it should be: easy, like breathing, like running. You daren’t open your eyes, though.

“Good!” Clint’s saying, “Don’t try to match her movements like that. Make it your own, but centre it round her. Yes! Better! Now you’re dancing like you were dancing last week. God, I’m good!”

_“You know I love it when the music stops,_

_But come on, strip that down for me, baby._

_Now there’s a lot of people in the crowd,_

_But only you can dance with me._

_So put your hands on my body,_

_And swing that round for me._

_You know I love it when the music stops,_

_But come on, strip that down for me._

_Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah_.”

Somebody whoops as you hit your final pose, and your eyes fly open in surprise: to find Bucky inches away, mirroring you exactly- and the tension that had been holding him back has entirely gone.

“Yes!” You shriek, jumping up with a fist-pump before holding up your hand for a high-five. Bucky’s eyes crinkle at the corners as he slaps his palm to yours.

“Um, who just solved your problem?” Clint wants to know, and you laugh before tackling him in a hug.

“Yeah, you’re a genius, we all bow down to you- but that was so great!”

You spin back to Bucky, feeling like you’re riding a wave of excitement.

“I didn’t even know you could do that,” Steve says, looking at his friend with mock suspicion.

Bucky snorts. “Don’t think I knew I could do that,” He mutters, and you grin widely, nudging him with your elbow before you can stop yourself. He smirks at you. “You still need to stretch.”

You roll your eyes dramatically. “You had to burst my bubble, didn’t you?” Nonetheless, you sit on the floor and begin the stretch Bucky showed you last week.

“Shall I grab our stuff?” Steve asks.

“How come you don’t need to stretch?” You say, in an accusatory tone. Steve gives a smug grin.

“Because I take good care of my muscles, kid- yours is the bag next to Pepper’s stuff, right?”

You huff, but nod, and Steve wanders off. Finally, your attention is entirely devoted to Bucky, which is probably not the best idea, because you can finally fully notice the bright spots of colour in his cheeks, and the strands of hair that are escaping to curl over his forehead, and the fact that his eyes seem to have been (impossibly) turned up a couple of watts. He’s looking at you with that same expression: like you’re a puzzle, but one that’s causing him some frustration. For a moment, you sit (well, stretch) in silence.

“Do you normally dance with your eyes closed?”

Your stomach doesn’t so much drop as swoop.  _Admit it_ , a chorus of excited goblins chant inside your brain,  _admit it_!

“Uh, no,” You say, dropping your eyes to the floorboards. “No- it’s kind of a- nervous habit?”

“You were nervous?” Bucky sounds-  _surprised_. You look up, hoping the flush in your cheeks will say enough.

“Well, yeah. I was.”

Bucky’s expression opens instantaneously, a brief, sudden bloom that sets your heart racing- and then there are footsteps and Steve is dangling your bag over your head.

“Come on, you two. I want to get home at some point.”

“Mmm,” You say. It’s about all you can manage.

~~

The walk home passes in strange skips and jumps, as though your brain can’t hold onto everything that’s been going on. You find yourself zeroing on strange things: the cornflower blue of the dusky sky, the smell of car fumes and cooling air, the way Bucky keeps running his fingers through his hair to settle it this way or that. You feel as though you’re hovering on the edge of something; as though you’re poised, waiting, holding your breath.

As you turn into your road, Bucky looks across at Steve, his expression unreadable. Before you can decipher what just passed between them, Bucky clears his throat.

“Y/N, are you free this Friday?”

You frown.

“I- yeah. I’m free. Why?”

“It’s open practice,” Steve says, on your other side. “Fury opens up the school for people to come and watch us rehearse.”

“I was wondering if maybe you wanted to come?”

You don’t miss that Bucky said  _I_. Your heart seems to have been filled with helium. “What, come and watch you dance?”

Bucky shrugs, while Steve says, wryly, “That’s the general idea.”

“Funny, Rogers. Yeah, I’d love to!” You allow enthusiasm to colour your tone, smiling widely. “I’ll see you on Friday, then!”

“You got it,” Bucky says, and you dash up the steps to your door feeling as light as a cloud, like you’re floating on air.


	8. When Can I See You Again?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Can I See You Again? - Owl City

It’s four o clock on Friday morning and you’re holding a hushed conversation with Lola over large mugs of coffee.

“But that’s great! Aren’t you excited?”

You nod, then stifle a yawn with a hand.

“I just hope I don’t fall asleep… But yeah. It feels like this big part of his life and-”

“And he’s letting you into it,” Lola nods in a satisfied kind of way. “I’m so pleased for you, Y/N.”

“Let’s not get too excited,” You tell her, more to manage your own expectations than anything else, before getting to your feet. “I’m going out on blanket patrol.”

“See you in a bit, then,” Lola turns back to her computer screen. You pick up the bundle of blankets from the spare chair and walk out, waving to Nahid who’s currently manning the front desk.

OK, so when you had said you were free on Friday, you had sort of neglected to tell Bucky that you were also on the night shift at the library until seven in the morning. You hadn’t wanted- well, to give him any excuse to tell you not to come. And you’ll be fine. It’s not like you haven’t been tired before.

You tread softly through the carpeted alleyways of the library, checking all the spots you know are favourite haunts for exhausted students looking for a spot to nap. Although sleeping in the library isn’t officially encouraged, the faculty had eventually recognised that not only was it an inevitability (especially during exam season) but also that the air conditioning in the building was so ferocious that students would find themselves waking up half-frozen. Hence blanket patrol.

You give out six blankets: some to sleepy, but still conscious friends, some you have to carefully drape over the curled-up forms yourself. After you’ve checked every inch of the library, you return to the office and sit down to go over the inventory lists for the month. Just three more hours to go…

~~

When you stumble back to your flat, you set three separate alarms and fall into bed to snatch an hour and a half of sleep. It seems like your head has barely hit the pillow before the shrill chimes are drilling through your head and dragging you, reluctantly, out of your doze.

You wake up a bit more, though, when you check your phone to see a message from Bucky.

**B: Steve and I are in studio 2 this am**

**B: looking forward to seeing you**

**Y: I’ll be there! And you too** **J**

You swing your legs out of bed and dash off for a shower.

Your hair is still wet by the time you rock up to the front of Fury’s Academy to find the doors wide open and a steady stream of people heading inside. Many look like they’re parents, although there are a couple of people your age, and a couple more who may well be prospective students. You fall in with them and traipse up the steps.

“Good morning!” A young voice grows louder as you step into the foyer, and you spot a skinny boy stood on a platform in the corner, gesturing the guests through the double doors. “Welcome to Fury’s Academy! You’ll find the lyrical students’ performance in Studio One, the advanced ballet dancers in Studio Two and the intermediate ballet dancers in Studio Three. Enjoy your day!”

Studio Two: that’s where Bucky had directed you. You file through the doors to find a space that might well have been the drawing room in the old house. It’s decorated like the foyer, with framed photographs lining the walls and chairs clustered at intervals across the space. Knots of people are stood talking and looking around excitedly, whilst others are heading through an opening at the back. You check the time and follow them- it’s nearly nine.

As Nat had said, the studios were an extension out the back of the old house: a long, low, utilitarian building, with white walls and a brown carpet. You find the correct door, then follow the crowd inside.

Your first impression is one of light. Like Wanda’s studio, the walls are lined with mirrors, but where Wanda’s lighting comes from artificial bulbs, here there are multiple skylights letting in the sunshine. The floor is a pale wood, further adding to the airy feel. Several rows of chairs are set along one wall and you find a spot on the end before looking up at the dancers.

They are arranged in perfectly symmetrical formation around two barres set in the centre of the room: girls on the right, boys on the left. You can immediately spot Nat, standing almost at the front with her distinctive red hair pulled back into that classical bun. On the left-hand side, you can see Steve (towering over the others), his face unusually solemn, Sam, poised and primed for motion, and- Bucky. Your heart gives an excited jolt.

“Good morning,” A deep voice issues from the centre of the dancers, and you pull your attention away. A tall man steps forward, his skin a deep, rich brown, and his arms and legs laced with muscles. You can feel your eyes widening: so  _this_  must be Mr T. “I welcome you to the Central Academy of the Arts. I am T’Challa, and I teach the Advanced Ballet Class, along with Miss Carter. This morning we will present to you our class, which is a series of stretches and exercises designed to prepare the body for the rigours of dancing and improve technique, before demonstrating some of the higher-level exercises our dancers are currently practicing.”

He turns his back to the audience, and the performance begins.

~~

You spend three hours in the studio. Your only acknowledgement of the time passing is the gradually increasing itch of tiredness at the back of your mind; otherwise, you’re totally engrossed. Of course, you’ve seen ballet on the TV, and seen the pictures- but the sheer intensity of the dancing shocks you. There’s no way to communicate the power, the focus that’s clearly required for each and every movement. When the dancers leap, you can feel the reverberations from the landing shuddering through the floor. The forces running through each dancer’s physique are laid out far barer when you’re this close; the effort required to make it appear effortless is far more obvious. And Bucky- well, Bucky simply takes your breath away.

At the end of the session, T’Challa opens the floor to questions as the dancers do their warm-down stretches. On the other end of your row, a lady puts her hand in the air.

“How old are the students in this class?”

“The typical age we expect is eighteen,” T’Challa says, in his measured voice, “Currently, our youngest student is seventeen, and our oldest is twenty-four.”

You notice Steve leaning over to murmur something to Bucky, provoking that familiar wry grin.

“Director Fury believes that any individual with the necessary talent should be given the opportunity to improve, regardless of age,” T’Challa concludes. “Any other questions?”

When every query has been addressed, T’Challa invites you all back to the drawing room where you can chat to the dancers. You get up (hiding a yawn behind your hand) and drift back down the corridor. Now that you don’t have something to focus on, your brain seems to have completely downed tools-  _no, no more_ , it says,  _no more until you put me to bed_!

_I’ll just say goodbye to them_ , you tell yourself,  _then I can find a quiet corner to nap in before the afternoon schedule_. You cross to the corner and drop into a chair, leaning your head against the wall and watching the door.

You’re not sure how many minutes pass, but eventually the advanced class troop into the room- Steve, Bucky, Sam and Nat among them. You sit up half-heartedly and wave. Steve (the tallest) spots you and waves back, but before they can set off towards you, a group of people swamp them.

_I’ll wait for them here_ , you think, and rest your chin on your hand as your eyes slide out of focus.

“Y/N?” You jerk upright and blink. Bucky’s frowning down at you, the sleeves of his black sweatshirt pushed up to the elbows. “You OK? You look kind of zoned out.”

“Sorry,” You yawn halfway through the word and groan. “Sorry! I had a night-shift, but I wanted to come and watch you… You were amazing!” You remember what you actually wanted to say and smile. “I’m just- I was in awe.”

Bucky smiles, sheepishly, but with concern still written in the set of his brow.

“Thank you- but you did a night-shift? And came straight here?”

“Well, not straight here, I went home and had a nap… I’ll just pop home for two hours, then I’ll come back. I want to see your audition piece.”

Bucky’s eyes widen. “Oh,  _no_ , you cannot be serious.”

“I’m perfectly serious,” You say, trying to sound mulish- but your words aren’t coming out crisply enough to be sufficiently threatening. Bucky rolls his eyes.

“If you think I’m letting you walk home like that, you’ve got another thing coming. Just- wait here a second.” He looks around before walking purposefully away. You subside back into the chair and do as you’re told.

In no time at all, Bucky’s back, his expression tight. He crouches down in front of you, so your faces are on a level.

“Are you serious about staying for the afternoon session?” He asks, gently. “I don’t mind if you miss it. I can call you a taxi and-”

“No,” You shake your head vigorously, “I said I’d be there.”

Bucky lifts his eyes to the ceiling in a now-familiar expression of exasperation. “You are incredibly stubborn, you know that?” When you nod, he snorts. “Alright, come on.”

“Where are we going?” You ask, standing up as he does.

“To find you somewhere to nap.”

You shrug and fall into step behind him. “That sounds good.”

Bucky leads you back out into the foyer, then pushes open the door to the servants’ stairs. “Come on. Just up to the second floor.”

The second floor is hidden behind a narrow door set in the landing: Bucky holds it open for you, then slides ahead and walks to a door about half-way down. He reaches into his pocket, takes out a key and unlocks it.

“Here,” He says, stepping back, “Take whichever one you want. I’ll come back up just before we need to go back into the studio.”

You step past him to see a narrow room, with two beds squeezed in against either wall, and a chest of drawers set underneath a small window at the far end. You turn back to Bucky as your brain puts two and two together.

“You didn’t have-”

“Yes, I did,” He says, in a tone that brooks no argument. Then his face softens into a smile. “I’ve got to go back down, but you can text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you,” You say, and your heart seems to have swelled to twice its usual proportions. “I just- thanks.”

“Any time,” He says, and carefully pushes the door shut, leaving you to look around what has to be his and Steve’s room.

Whenever you’d thought about their dorm (in an abstract kind of way) you’d pictured it as simultaneously plain and messy; but the reality is precisely the opposite. The floor and surfaces are immaculate. Both sets of covers are made up neatly, pulled as flat as glass with the pillows carefully placed by the headboard. But the walls are covered with scraps of paper and photographs and tattered posters. You might be exhausted, but your curiosity is stronger, and you draw closer to examine them. The photographs are overwhelmingly of Steve, Bucky, Sam and Nat- grainy selfies interspersed with professional shots from what look like end-of-term balls- but there a couple of people you don’t recognise. Over the left-hand bed, there’s a picture of a skinny, blonde kid with his arms around a pale woman with a heart-shaped face.  _Steve_ , you think, then realise with a clench that you haven’t seen Steve’s parents here today. Or Bucky’s, for that matter.

You decide against sleeping in Steve’s bed, purely because he hadn’t explicitly offered, so you gingerly lie down on the right-hand bed and stretch all the way out.  _Thank you!_  You can practically hear your brain crowing, even as another wave of tiredness rolls over you- and, in an instant, you’re out of it.

~~

“Y/N?”

You groan and squeeze your eyes tighter closed.

“Come on, Y/N,” The voice doesn’t go away. “Time to wake up.”

You scrunch up your face, then reluctantly roll over.

To come face to face with Bucky.

“Oh,” You groan, dropping your palm to cover your reddening face, “I totally forgot where I was. OK, I’m getting up.”

Bucky snorts and you can hear him standing up. “I was knocking for a good ten seconds. Do you always sleep that deeply?”

You shrug. “You have a comfy bed. And thank you. Again. I feel like I didn’t do a good enough job of telling you that earlier.”

Bucky smiles, with a slight edge of self-deprecating humour. “Just call me Fix-It Felix.”

“You like Wreck-It Ralph?”  _That’s possibly the cutest thing ever_. Bucky sends you a warning look.

“Let’s just forget I said that.”

You smirk. “Whatever you say.” You swing your legs down, stand up, and quickly smooth down your clothes before fixing your hair. “Will I do?”

Bucky nods. “You’ll do.”

Together, you walk out of the dorm room (Bucky locking the door behind you) and clatter back down the stairs to open practice.

~~

Bucky had told you, over the space of several messages, that open practice served a dual purpose: it was designed, of course, to show the parents what their happy charges had been getting up to throughout the year, but it was also the perfect atmosphere for those students who were auditioning for companies to perform their set pieces in front of a crowd. The afternoon programme begins with group performances from the younger students in each of the genres, culminating in the individual routines from the advanced dancers. The doors to Studio One are thrown open, and Bucky guides you into the crowd.

“I have to go warm up,” He says, “But I’ll see you after?”

“Good luck!” You call, and he gives you a mock-salute before turning away and heading down the corridor.

You are very thankful for your nap provisions when the performances start; because they are all astonishingly good. Even the youngest students, who can’t be older than fifteen, complete extensions that make you gasp just looking at them. There are a mixture of styles on show: lyrical, contemporary, and, of course, the elegant discipline of ballet.

You begin to recognise the dancers as the afternoon progresses: Charlie dances to a wavering, airy piece that sends shivers down the spine, then Sam comes on directly after him to glide through a complex routine with consummate ease. Steve is a few slots after, and he uses his sheer power to wow the watching crowd with sharp, crisp, soaring movements. And then- then Bucky takes the floor.

Watching him dance by himself is an entirely different experience to watching him in class. It’s as though all of that intense, forceful determination he employs against his own technique is turned outwards, thrown wide to astonish anyone who looks at him. You can hardly watch him without a flush crawling into your cheeks; but you can’t tear your eyes away, either. That old cliché of looking at the sun comes to mind- something that burns so bright it’s almost painful, but it’s the brightness that lends it the beauty. When he wraps up the final phrase and sinks into a deep bow, you have to hold yourself back from cheering.

Nat is one of the last to perform, sending whispers rustling through the crowd (You hear the words  _expression_  and  _grace_  mentioned at least five times) before the director comes onto the floor and has the final words.

“I would like to thank you all for coming today. We hope you found the day both interesting and informative. As with the morning session, our students will be on hand afterwards to answer your queries and talk to you about their experience at the Academy. Thank you, and good day.”

The crowd disperses, chattering loudly, and you head back to your earlier seat to wait for your friends to emerge. When they do, you leap to your feet and congratulate them all enthusiastically.

“You were all amazing! So amazing! I’m just- blown away by you all.”

“Damn, we should invite her more often!” Sam jokes, and the other three laugh. “I think my folks are around somewhere, I’m gonna go find them.”

“I think I’m going to head off, too,” You say, “I need to get to bed. Again.”

“Excuse me?” A young girl nervously bobs on the balls of her feet as she stares up at the three dancers. “I- um, I just wanted to say your solo performances were amazing.”

“Thank you!” Steve gives her a wide smile. “Are you thinking about coming here?” Subtly, he draws her closer, and Bucky and Nat quietly back away, you in tow.

“Why are we running away?” You mutter out of the corner of your mouth. Nat just shudders.

“ _Children_.”

You stifle a laugh as the three of you emerge into the foyer. “Time for me to make my escape, then.”

“Romanoff!” The director’s gruff tones attract Nat’s attention from the other side of the room. She grimaces, then accepts her summons.

“Escaping is definitely a good idea,” Bucky says, in a low voice, “It will be networking and canapes as far as the eye can see.”

“I’ll leave you to your fate, then.” You look up at him, then, on some, mad impulse, step forward and lightly wrap your arms around him. His huff of surprised breath sounds weirdly magnified in your ears; then, after an instant, he gently returns the embrace.

It’s over quickly- you don’t want to make it awkward (even though you’d happily be held like that for the rest of your life)- and when you step back you’re sure your face is melting right off. Still, you summon up whatever remains of your courage and open your mouth. “Do you want to come round to mine at the weekend? We can cook- I have Wreck-It Ralph.”

You’re edging on babbling, so you stop and try not to chew your lower lip.

Bucky’s expression, though, is warm and open. “How can I pass up an offer like that?”

A smile splits and grows across your face, and it doesn’t go away for the rest of the day.

 


	9. Manhattan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Manhattan- Blossom Dearie

**B: is Sunday eve ok for you?**

**B: or we can ditch the film night on Sat**

**Y: I’m on the night-shift again Sunday so it will have to be the latter**

Privately, you think it will give your group of friends enough ammunition for gossip for the next three weeks, but decide against sharing that with Bucky. Just in case- just on the off-chance- that you’re reading this situation entirely wrong.

Regardless of how Bucky’s interpreting your invitation, you’re in a state of nervous excitement for the whole day. You decide, then immediately refute, what you’re going to wear at least three times. You tidy and re-tidy every inch of your tiny flat. Your stomach seems to be full of spring-loaded frogs at a rave. Eventually you put on your most comforting music and make a start on the soup.

The doorbell goes just as you put the pot on to simmer, and you jolt in surprise.

_Stay calm_ , you tell yourself,  _don’t freak out_. Then you take a deep breath, calmly put down the oven glove, and head downstairs.

Bucky’s stood on your doorstep, dressed in a t-shirt and his usual loose trousers. Your heart feels like its blooming at the sight of him.

“Come in, then,” You say. “I’m just up the stairs. And for once I don’t have to say excuse the mess. Your room was freakishly tidy, by the way.”

Bucky snorts behind you. “Steve’s very neat. I guess I’ve picked it up by osmosis.”

“And were those his drawings?” You remember the torn-out pages from a sketch-book, showing everything from detailed caricatures to sketches of ballet poses.

“Yeah, he’s something, right?”

“Yeah! They’re amazing. I must remember to tell him that next time I see him-” You hold open the door to your flat and gesture for Bucky to step inside, “- Welcome to my humble abode.”

Nerves prickle under your skin as Bucky surveys your one room residence. It’s hardly fancy- your salary doesn’t allow for anything ostentatious- but you fell in love with the tall windows and the high ceiling, and never mind that the bathroom is so small that you can brush your teeth, shower and use the toilet all at the same time, and your bed is only separated from the rest of the apartment by a painted screen you picked up in a market when you moved in. It’s your place, and you’re very fond of it. You eye Bucky, waiting for his reaction.

“This is… very you.”

“Really?” You can’t help the surprised exclamation jolting out of you. Somehow, that wasn’t what you had expected him to say. He turns towards you and gives you that lopsided smile.

“Yeah. Don’t ask me to explain it, though. It just is.”

You roll your eyes and find yourself relaxing. “An irrefutable fact, huh?”

“Yep.”

You snort, then gesture towards your tiny dining table. “Take a seat, the soup should almost be done.”

Bucky doesn’t move. “Sure there’s nothing I can do to help?”

It’s silly that such a tiny thing can bring a blush to your cheeks, but the offer of help makes something sweet and warm wriggle around in your chest.

“I guess you could lay the table? If you’re determined to create work for yourself.” You bury your face over the saucepan before you can turn any more red. “Cutlery is in the left-hand drawer.”

There’s a rattle, then the clatter of metal as Bucky sets to his task. “Don’t tell me where the bowls are,” He quips, “I’m going to figure it out myself.”

_Honestly_. “You can consider it your noble quest to earn the prize,” You tease.

There’s the briefest of pauses, then Bucky answers you. “Does that include the favour of the fair maiden?”

For a good few seconds, your thoughts aren’t even properly coherent. If you had to voice them, they’d probably sound like  _Eeep!_  Or the garbled noise people make when they swallow their tongues. Inexplicably, you have a hysterical urge to grin.

“I’m making you food,” You finally manage, the smile evident in your voice as you stare at the hob, “I think that’s already pretty favourable.”

You dare a look up at Bucky: he has two bowls in his hand, and a grin you haven’t seen before on his handsome face. Before the moment can mangle your breath any more, you sigh with as much exasperation as you can muster. “Come on, soldier! Otherwise I might think you’re slacking on your quest.”

“As the lady commands,” He says, in a ridiculously overblown voice, and you laugh. One of your favourite songs comes on through the speakers of your laptop, and, without even thinking about it, you start to bob in time with the beat.

_[“Ride it on out like a bird in the sky ways,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKDAh19tms4U&t=NDEyODA2Njg5ZGIxMTkxMmEwN2ViYTg2ZTAzZjQxOWRkY2ZiMDU2NyxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[Ride it on out like if you were a bird,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKDAh19tms4U&t=NDEyODA2Njg5ZGIxMTkxMmEwN2ViYTg2ZTAzZjQxOWRkY2ZiMDU2NyxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[Fly it all out like an eagle in a sunbeam,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKDAh19tms4U&t=NDEyODA2Njg5ZGIxMTkxMmEwN2ViYTg2ZTAzZjQxOWRkY2ZiMDU2NyxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[Ride it on out like if you were a bird,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DKDAh19tms4U&t=NDEyODA2Njg5ZGIxMTkxMmEwN2ViYTg2ZTAzZjQxOWRkY2ZiMDU2NyxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_Wear a tall hat like a druid in the old days-”_

“Wait,” Bucky interrupts your muffled singing, “Did he just say  _like a druid in the old days_?” You just grin and sing a little louder.

_“Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,_

_Wear your hair long, babe, you can’t go wrong.”_

“Steve’s always on at me about my hair,” Bucky starts bopping from side to side where he’s standing beside the table, “Says I should commit either way, long or short.”

_“Catch a bright star and place it on your forehead,_

_Say a few spells, baby, there you go,_

_Take a black cat and sit it on your shoulder,_

_And in the morning you’ll know all you know.”_

You turn the gas down to the lowest setting and move away from the oven to give yourself a bit more space to dance. Wanda would absolutely not approve of the moves you’re doing- it’s absolutely without style, taste, or sex-appeal- but there’s something very liberating about dancing, every so often, like your dad. You hop from foot to foot, nodding your head and waving your arms about, sketching out silly moves taken from Grease and flimsy guitar solos. Bucky’s smile grows wider every time you catch a glance at him.

You wiggle around in a circle, doing your worst Elvis impression. “I bet you’re just genetically incapable of dancing badly. It’s programmed into you.”

Bucky’s eyebrows raise. “Really?”

And then he’s doing the absolute worst approximation at a groovy walk you’ve ever seen, and you nearly double over laughing.

_“Wear a tall hat like a druid in the old days,_

_Wear a tall hat and a tattooed gown,_

_Ride a white swan like the people of the Beltane,_

_Wear your hair long, babe, you can’t go wrong_.”

And then you’re dancing with Bucky in your kitchen, both of you attempting to outdo the other with your most appalling moves and laughing so hard there are tears leaking from the corners of your eyes. When the song fades out, you have to reach out a hand to support yourself.

It lands on Bucky’s shoulder- just as the next song starts playing, and your stomach seems to drop down a rollercoaster loop as you recognise the tune.

Soft piano, a delicate melody…

_[“I’ll take Manhattan,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DA0r63K_wYu4&t=NTViZGRkMDE4ZjY3NTc1YjE3Yzg0NzMxODZlMTAzNDZhMTBjNDU2MCxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[The Bronx,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DA0r63K_wYu4&t=NTViZGRkMDE4ZjY3NTc1YjE3Yzg0NzMxODZlMTAzNDZhMTBjNDU2MCxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[And Staten Island, too…”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DA0r63K_wYu4&t=NTViZGRkMDE4ZjY3NTc1YjE3Yzg0NzMxODZlMTAzNDZhMTBjNDU2MCxvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

Your eyes are drawn to Bucky’s face like a magnet. His expression is in the act of softening, and it nearly stops your heart.

_“It’s lovely going through,_

_The zoo…”_

Bucky swallows; you can see the action of it moving his throat. His voice is somehow gentle and serious.

“Would you care to dance?”

In the background, Blossom continues to sing, oblivious to the fact that your heart has somehow acquired helium balloons and is floating away on them, right up to the ceiling.

_“It’s very fancy,_

_On old Delancey Street,_

_You know…”_

“I would,” You say, unable to manage anything finer, but Bucky doesn’t seem to mind. Unsure, you take your hand away from his shoulder, but he catches it with ease and holds it snug in his own. With the other, he laces your arm over his, until you’re cradled close to his chest, feeling the curve of his shoulder under your palm and the heat of his skin where your palms meet.

_Let lips meet, as hands do…_

A misremembered scrap of Shakespeare floats through your head, and you can feel your face flaring.

_“The subway charms us so,_

_When balmy breezes blow,_

_To and fro…”_

Bucky carefully sways in time with the steady, honeyed beat, and you can’t think what to think. Your mind feels like it can barely extend beyond the parameters of this perfect, perfect moment; like you’re full to the brim, overwhelmed, surrounded. And yet, strangely, you’re not scared. You hold your breath.

_“The great big city’s a wondrous toy,_

_Made for a girl and boy…”_

You know that this feeling, this sensation, all parts both physical and mental, will be etched onto your brain forever.

_You’ve felt like this before_ , your brain whispers, but it’s small and indistinct.  _This time, it’s different_ , you tell yourself.  _This time I know it’s right_.

“ _We’ll turn Manhattan,_

_Into an isle of joy_.”

You let your breath out slowly, so it turns into a sigh. You let your head drift down until it rests, comfortably, on Bucky’s chest. The fabric of his sweater is soft against your cheek. You can feel the air shuddering from his lungs, ruffling the top of your hair as it escapes. You let yourself relax. Let yourself be held.

It feels pretty good.

You stay that way for the rest of the song, gently revolving on the spot. You know that it would be an easy thing for Bucky to throw in a few simple moves- spin you out, maybe, or rock back so you separate- but you wonder if, just perhaps, he doesn’t want to let go of you as much as you don’t want to let go of him.

Eventually, Blossom’s voice lingers on the final stanza.

“ _I’ll take Manhattan…”_

You freeze- then slowly lift your head. Bucky is just inches away. His eyes are glittering, warm and inviting. It would be the easiest thing in the world to just-

[“ _Uh_!”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D93J52A7JRLo&t=MmYzOTc0NWE3N2IyMjI1YzljYzdhNjdmZDU3MmRmYzc5NThjNGZjNixvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1)

Your eyes bug open in surprise. The horribly familiar, funky, utterly  _ironic_ bassline jumps out of the speakers.

_[“You don’t have to be beautiful!](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D93J52A7JRLo&t=MmYzOTc0NWE3N2IyMjI1YzljYzdhNjdmZDU3MmRmYzc5NThjNGZjNixvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

_[To turn me on!”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3D93J52A7JRLo&t=MmYzOTc0NWE3N2IyMjI1YzljYzdhNjdmZDU3MmRmYzc5NThjNGZjNixvNENpMzd4Qw%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162175661925%2Ffeeling-alive-part-8&m=1) _

Bucky’s lips quirk at the corners. A tiny snicker bubbles out of him. And then you’re both laughing again, if possible, even harder than before.

_“I just need your body, baby,_

_From dusk ‘til dawn!”_  Prince continues to sing, as, by some unspoken agreement, you both separate a little.

“Right, food!” You say, still giggling. Actually, you don’t know whether to laugh or cry- but in this moment, your optimistic instincts are clamouring for attention. Surely,  _surely_ , another moment will come. You reach for the saucepan (innocently simmering for the last ten minutes) and find the ladle on the side.

_“You don’t have to be rich,_

_To be my girl!_

_You don’t have to be cool,_

_To rule my world!”_  You sing along without really being able to help it, dishing up.

_“Ain’t no particular sign I’m more compatible with_ -” Suddenly, Bucky’s leaning over your shoulder and your heart jolts-

_“I just want your extra time and your- kiss!”_

Bucky swoops in and lands a kiss on the apple of your cheeks, right where you must be blushing the hardest. Then, before you can react, he steals the bowls from the counter and spins round to set them on the counter.

“Sneaky,” You say, trying to hide how fast your heart is racing. Bucky just smirks.

“I saw my moment.”

“Musical prompting for a date,” You snort, “Who’d have thought.” You sit down opposite him and reach for your spoon. “Go ahead, I think you’ve earned it.”

Bucky nods, then follows your lead.

After the initial complements for your cooking (which are really overblown, given that soup is just throwing ingredients together and wielding a blender), you relax into friendly conversation.

“How long have you been working at the library?” Bucky asks. You frown, trying to work it out.

“Nearly two years now? I used to study at the university but- well, studying wasn’t really for me.” That sentence is the shorthand for the endless cycle of panic attacks, dissociative episodes and social anxiety that chewed you up and spit you out during your first year. Still, you don’t want to bring the mood down. Bucky, however, gives you a small frown.

“You’re smart, though.”

“What makes you say that?” You’re honestly curious. Bucky raises one eyebrow.

“You just spent the last five minutes explaining the Dewey Decimal system to me.”

You huff a laugh and acquiesce. “It wasn’t the academic stuff that was the problem. It was the pressure. Thankfully my parents were OK with me dropping out.”

Bucky nods, looking solemn. “I’m glad.”

“Did you ever think about doing something that wasn’t dance?”

“Uh, kind of?” His expression closes-up, just a fraction, and you instantly back-pedal.

“I didn’t mean to pry-”

He shakes his head, seemingly relaxing. “No, you’re OK. It’s not a big secret. Nat calls us old men enough of the time…” He pushes a hand through his hair, sitting back in his chair. “I actually started at a professional school when I was seventeen. Back home, with Stevie- we basically grew up together. I was a couple of years ahead of him. I had just been offered a job with a company- but Stevie dislocated his knee.” Bucky’s face grows dark. “It’s the kind of injury that can write off a dancer. He needed time to rehab, so I turned down the job. Dropped out with him.”

Bucky looks pained. “At first, it was fine, but- I’m not proud of it, but turning down that contract ate me up for a while. I travelled around. Worked dead-end jobs. Fell out of touch with Steve. Then, one day, out of the blue, I get this call, and Fury’s offering me an audition spot for his Academy if I can pull myself out of the gutter.” He shrugs. “So I got on a bus, and came here. Saw Steve for the first time in over a year- he wasn’t even mad at me, just pleased that I was back. We prepared together. So,” He gives you a wry smile, “If you hear Nat mention that I did the hardest audition piece the Academy has ever seen, you should know that Steve was only narrowly behind. And we both had to get scholarships.”

“And you did?” You ask. You’re confronted with that weird feeling of someone revealing another facet of their personality, an important piece of their past. Hardly thinking about it, you reach across and gently touch Bucky’s wrist. The smile he gives you is a small slice of the sun.

“We did.”

“And Steve’s knee?”

Bucky shrugs again. “Seems OK so far. Most dancers have injuries, though. I had surgery on my bicep last year- the tendon sheared off the bone, they had to reattach it.”

You snort, mildly horrified. “And they say ballet isn’t tough.”

“Well, they haven’t met Nat,” Bucky says, and you both laugh.

“Right,” You say, pushing your chair back, “I promised you Wreck-It Ralph, and I intend to deliver. Don’t worry about the washing up, I’ll do it in the morning.”

“If you say so,” Bucky says, carrying his bowl to the sink. “Where do you want me?”

_What a question to ask_ , you think, but stifle all of the incredibly inappropriate responses that threaten to burst out of your mouth.

“Ah, beanbag or sofa. Up to you.”

Bucky flops down on the sofa and smiles up at you. “Not often I can get in the corner.”

“One of the perks of my place,” You say, as neutrally as possible, pausing the music and clicking to access the DVD. “I wonder how the others are getting on?”

“Fine, I’m sure. I’d have heard if they’d torched the place.”

“Are they likely to do that?”

“Nat will when Sirius dies. She hates that scene.”

You grimace. “Don’t we all.”

The DVD finally fires up and you walk around to balance the screen on the tiny table in front of the sofa. You hesitate for the briefest moment, before sitting down right beside Bucky and leaning gingerly against his side. In a heartbeat, he lifts his arm so that it rests along the cushions behind your shoulders.

“OK?” You ask, and he smiles down at you.

“Perfect, doll.”

You smile, and lean forward to press play.


	10. Skip to the Good Bit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skip to the Good Bit, by Rizzle Kicks.

You huff out a breath and roll over in bed. It’s no good. Your brain simply won’t switch off. All you can think about is the last few hours: Bucky smiling; Bucky dancing with you around the kitchen; curling up on your tattered sofa and carefully tucking yourself against Bucky’s side… And the tiny matter of the incident on the porch. The miniscule, insignificant fact that Bucky had leaned forward in the weak yellow glow of the outside bulb and pressed his lips softly to yours.

Yeah, that.

Even just thinking about it makes you grin into the darkness. Fizzing bubbles seem to have filled your chest cavity, exploding against your ribs in glimmering sparks of colour.

Bucky kissed you.

It was just a dry press of mouth against mouth- you would even go so far as to call it chaste- and yet it nearly exploded a bomb in your heart. You had frozen on the steps; and it had only been after a few seconds had passed that you’d realised your eyes had slid shut. When you had opened them again, Bucky was smiling like he had swallowed a sparkler, but he was already retreating down the path to the street.

“Guess I’ll see you on Wednesday, Y/N.”

A frantic, weightless giggle had burst out of your mouth. You bit your lip to combat the smile unfurling across your face, before finding your voice again.

“Guess you will.”

There’s nobody here to see you now, so you allow your grin to grow, spreading in concert with the joy that’s singing in your heart.

~~

“She looks happy.”

“Far happier than anyone on a Sunday night shift has any right to be.”

You drop your bag onto your desk and roll your eyes (although, OK, you do look happy). “I’m right here, you two.”

“Indeed you are,” Nahid eyes you beadily. “So tell all!”

You consider trying to throw them off, but your traitorous brain just keeps making you smile. Lola nearly crows with delight.

“Yeah, yeah, fine! It went well.” You can’t help the tiny laugh that bursts out of you. “Really well.”

“Friendly conversation well? Or get laid well?”

“Nahid!” You exclaim, then realise you’re going to have to give them the truth- otherwise they’ll assume a whole lot worse. “Yes, we had friendly conversation. And we danced.”

“You danced?” Lola frowns sceptically. “I thought you did that anyway?”

You can feel your face heating up. Yeah, you and Bucky have danced together- but swaying together, pressed against his chest, as Blossom Dearie sang wistfully about love and joy feels like something far more intimate and indescribable than just attending a class together. “Not the routine we do on Wednesdays,” You settle for, and Nahid immediately raises a suggestive eyebrow.

“That’s an innuendo if every I’ve heard one.”

“No!” You yelp, throwing a balled-up scrap of paper at her. “I don’t know why I tell you anything.”

Lola breaks off laughing. “Don’t tease her, Nahid, otherwise she’ll clam up.”

You try not to look self-righteous, and probably fail- but Nahid seals her lips together and dials down her smirk.

“OK,” You take a deep breath, and decide to just say it, “We kissed.”

“Yes!” Lola holds up her hand to high-five Nahid. “And?”

“ _And_  nothing. He went home. I’ll see him again on Wednesday.”

Lola and Nahid exchange a look.

“What?” You hammer a few keys on your computer pointedly. “We’re not in a hurry. At least, I don’t think we are.” Even as you say it, you think of their upcoming auditions and feel your stomach drop. You hurriedly shove the thought away. Just live in the moment, right?

“Fine,” Nahid sighs. “I call an end to gossip time. Can you take the front desk?”

You nod and jump to your feet. Through the window that looks out over the library, you can see several students beginning to drift in, and you pull your focus back to your work. They deserve nothing less than your full attention.

~~

The trouble with the night shift is that there’s actually very little activity for you to focus on. Apart from a minor drama at ten to midnight when one of the printers jams, the hours slide by in peace and relative quiet, and several times you catch yourself beginning to drift. Part of you wonders how Pepper and Wanda will react to your news. Of course, you’d told them about your alternative Saturday plans, and they’d both wished you luck- but neither of them knew exactly what had occurred between you and Bucky. You almost want to hold off telling them, just to avoid the inevitable smug looks and barrage of teasing you’ll have to endure come Wednesday, but then you remember the feeling of Bucky’s lips against yours and decide that climbing up to the library roof and starting to declaim might not be overkill.

_Hear this, o people! Bucky Barnes kissed me!_

“You’ve got a silly face on,” Lola whispers, as she heads out to do some re-shelving, and you hastily wipe your expression blank. Before you can retort, however, she’s out of ear-shot. Sighing, you sink back in your chair and resolve to start checking the late returns list, just to keep yourself distracted.

~~

**B: hope ns wasn’t too bad**

**B: rly looking forward to seeing you on weds**

It’s Monday evening and you’re smiling at your phone as you lie in bed.

**Y: Only just woken up but it was fine**

You hesitate briefly, then add:

**Y: Had happy memories to sustain me**

**B: well wreck-it ralph is one of the best movies of all time**

**B: ;)**

You roll your eyes. Idiot.

**Y: You’re incorrigible**

**Y: How was your day?**

**B: p good**

**B: had happy memories to sustain me**

It’s verging on ridiculous how one line of text can make your heart start performing a happy jig.

**Y: Smooth ;)**

**B: also true**

A small involuntary squeak escapes you. Your lungs are suddenly somehow filled with sunshine.

**B: Steve’s threatening to confiscate my phone if I don’t go to sleep**

**B: talk to you tomorrow?**

**Y: Like I have anything better to do ;)**

**Y: Sleep well** **J**

Still chewing back your grin, you throw back the duvet and go in search of food.

~~

Monday and Tuesday pass in much the same way. You endure a three-way grilling from Wanda and Pepper over Skype (losing track of how many times Wanda says  _I told you so_ ) and cave in to telling your mum about the non-specifics of your date. Of course, she bubbles over with excitement (“Oh, how  _nice_  for you!”), and, to your surprise, you find yourself carried along with it. Optimism has infected you when you weren’t looking, and now the world has taken on a burnished hue that glows brighter with every happy tick of your heart.

On Wednesday you are, for possibly the first time ever, ten minutes early for the bus. Nerves tickle the pit of your stomach. You stare fixedly at the curb and try not to fidget as you wait.

“Y/N!”

Your head shoots up and you look round to see Steve waving expansively. When he realises you’re looking, his expression melds into one of faux-shock. “You’re  _early_  for the bus?!”

“Oh, shut up,” You laugh, then blink as he draws closer and engulfs you in a hug. It doesn’t make you uncomfortable in the slightest- you’re just a little surprised.

And then you lay eyes on Bucky, and you’re suddenly very distracted.

It’s a strange sensation, to have a memory so strong it presses up against your eyes, tugging at the corners of your lips, forcing a flush to bloom across your face: but that’s how it feels just to look at him. That one, brief, barely-there kiss is seared into your mind like a brand, and it flares with colour at the sight of his sharp blue eyes.

Before you can make an utter fool of yourself gawping (or drooling on the pavement) Sam steps forwards and also draws you into a hug.

“Nice to see you, Y/N.” His voice sounds strained, as though he’s trying to hold back a laugh, and an instant later you realise why. “Missed you on Saturday.”

When he pulls back, you catch the tail end of the death-glare Bucky is sending to his three friends simultaneously, and fight back the hysterical urge to giggle. Instead, you look away and fix Steve with a stare.

“The three of you are absolutely  _not_  allowed to use this as ammunition,” You tell them, looking to Sam and Nat in turn, your voice firm. Steve, at least, has the grace to look contrite.

“I was trying to be helpful,” He says. “I just thought you might feel uncomfortable if only Bucky hugged you!”

Before you can finish rolling your eyes, Bucky heaves an equally exasperated sigh.

“I don’t need your damn permission, Rogers.”

And before you know what’s happening, you’re wrapped up in Bucky’s arms with your face pressed in his shoulder. Unfortunately, before you can fully enjoy the experience (how is it possible for one individual to smell so good?) there’s a pointed cough from behind you.

“They’re so cute.”

“I may throw up,” Nat mutters, delicately.

You sigh, and bury your face further into the soft fabric. “Where’s the goddamn bus when you need it?”

Bucky laughs, and releases you. He has that smile that means  _happy, yellow, joy tickling the back of your throat_ : the kind that seems to be pressed upwards on his face. It might be your favourite kind.

“Your prayers are answered, Y/N!” Sam jokes, and the sound of an engine rumbles closer. Nat presses a hand to her eyes.

“Yes,  _please_ , let’s get on the bus before there’s any more  _hugging_.”

Bucky reaches out to tousle her hair. “Drama queen.”

Nat shoots daggers at him. “You’ll pay for that later.”

“Let’s just get on the bus,” Steve grimaces, and, smirking, you do exactly that.

~~

Nat immediately ushers you into the window seat and promptly sits down beside you, effectively blocking you off from Bucky. You snort, but decide it’s not worth a battle. Instead, you lean around and engage Nat in conversation.

“You survived the networking then?”

She grimaces. “Somehow.”

“Don’t listen to her,” Steve laughs, “She charmed them, as usual.”

Nat purses her lips primly, but you can see the smirk she’s holding back. “You can talk. One look at your pretty face and they’re falling over themselves.”

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Romanoff.”

“Yeah,” Sam objects, “What about  _my_  pretty face?”

“Don’t worry,” Bucky leans back in his seat and shoots you a smile that warms up your insides by half a degree, “They were actually concentrating on your dancing.”

“So you’re saying there’s nothing to distract them? Oh, thank you, thank you so much.”

Steve pats Sam’s shoulder consolingly. “I’m sure there’s a career for you in salsa.”

Sam throws his hands in the hair and huffs. “I don’t know why I’m friends with you guys.”

“Honestly?” You chip in, “I have no idea. They don’t deserve you, Sam.”

“Thanks, Y/N,” Sam laughs, “I’m glad somebody appreciates me.”

You look over at Bucky, and he raises his eyebrows slightly. You feel a giggle well up in your chest ( _another_  one, what is with you?) and tilt your head slightly even as you raise your eyes to the grimy ceiling of the bus. It’s the best way you can communicate  _Yes, of course I still like you best_.

“Steve, intervene!” Nat cries. When he looks at her in surprise, she adds, “They’re making faces at each other.”

“Don’t panic, Nat,” Bucky snorts, pulling himself to his feet, “It’s our stop. We won’t impose on you any longer.”

“Thank god.” She shifts to the side to let you out into the aisle. You step past her and laugh.

“See you later, Nat. Bye, Sam!”

“Have fun,” Sam sniggers.

“Make good decisions!” Nat calls to you, just as the doors hiss open. Frankly, you’re glad to hop down onto the pavement just to hide your blush.

~~

Things only get worse when you enter the studio. Across the room, you can see Wanda’s expression lighting up at the sight of you; she immediately cracks a grin even as you try to hush her with a glare.

“Why is she staring?” Bucky mutters, eyeing her.

“Because she has  _no chill_ ,” You reply, straightening up and marching over to where Clint and Pepper are chatting. “Hey!”

“Oh, hey!” To her credit, Pepper’s eyes only widen slightly. You decide to hold back on the warning glare.

Clint, however, is less restrained.

“How was your date?”

Thankfully, he signs it- and although he bursts into snickers when you frantically reply with the negative, Bucky and Steve simply look confused.

“Ignore him,” You say, both aloud and with gestures, glaring at Clint, “He’s being an idiot.”

“Rude,” Clint replies, but before the argument can escalate Wanda cuts across you.

“Come on, kids! Let’s get started!”

You stick out your tongue at Clint and stride out onto the floor. Honestly. You love your friends dearly, but sometimes they did like to embarrass you a whole lot more than was necessary.

A point which Wanda seems to prove half an hour later, when warm ups are through.

“New routine today gang! I was going to teach the guys their segment, but I got bored and decided to do this instead!” She grins at you, and you immediately guess her intentions. It’s all you can do not to bury your head in your hands. “We’ll get the moves down separately, then see if we can go through it partnered up. If we get time, we’ll do hand-in at the end! Let’s get to it!”

It takes maybe three beats for you to recognise the song; you laugh, because otherwise you’d probably run and hide. When you look at Bucky, he has his head tilted to his side and a confused smile gracing his mouth.

“Didn’t this come out in high school?”

You nod, even as the Pussycat Dolls begin to sing.

_[“I’m tellin’ you to loosen up my buttons, babe,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVCLxJd1d84s&t=ZjBhNDRhOTg1ZjM0Y2EwY2QzNzViODQzNzIyNGNmOWM5NGRjYjkxYiwyaEw1c0Jzeg%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162313554715%2Ffeeling-alive-part-9&m=1) _

_[But you keep fronting.](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVCLxJd1d84s&t=ZjBhNDRhOTg1ZjM0Y2EwY2QzNzViODQzNzIyNGNmOWM5NGRjYjkxYiwyaEw1c0Jzeg%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162313554715%2Ffeeling-alive-part-9&m=1) _

_[Say what you’re gonna do to me,](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVCLxJd1d84s&t=ZjBhNDRhOTg1ZjM0Y2EwY2QzNzViODQzNzIyNGNmOWM5NGRjYjkxYiwyaEw1c0Jzeg%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162313554715%2Ffeeling-alive-part-9&m=1) _

_[But I ain’t seen nothing…”](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DVCLxJd1d84s&t=ZjBhNDRhOTg1ZjM0Y2EwY2QzNzViODQzNzIyNGNmOWM5NGRjYjkxYiwyaEw1c0Jzeg%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162313554715%2Ffeeling-alive-part-9&m=1) _

“This is going to be fun!” Wanda shuts off the music and bounces back to the front of the class. “Now, do as I do, and we’ll learn the routine.”

~~

To your relief, you don’t actually get any further than blocking the new moves. Wanda has devised a combination of incredibly raunchy poses, but it proves fairly complex to knit them all together and the class runs to time before she can ask you to partner up. When Bucky isn’t looking, you stick out her tongue at her, and she rolls her eyes.

“We will be partnering up next week!” She calls, smiling sardonically. “So be ready!”

_You’re the worst_ , you think, glaring at her, before turning around- to find Bucky standing expectantly in front of you.

“Stretching?”

You’d almost forgotten. “Oh, yeah. Alright.”

Bucky smiles crookedly. “No need to sound quite so enthusiastic.”

Sighing, you sit down on the floor and make a start on the butterfly stretch.

Over Bucky’s shoulder, Clint attracts your attention with a wave of his hand and signs, “Hurry up!”

“One minute,” You reply. Bucky’s watching your gestures curiously.

“One minute, was that?”

“Yeah!” You smile at him. “Have you been practicing signing or something?”

“We do what we can,” Steve calls, wryly.

Clint pats him on the shoulder consolingly, then signs, “You’ll get there.”

“Having fun on the floor, Y/N?” Wanda says. It’s only because you know her really well that you can hear the hint of teasing in her tone.

“Just done, actually,” You say, briskly, jumping to your feet. Bucky raises his eyebrows, but gets to his feet, too.

Wanda snorts. “Alright. I’ll lock up after you.”

“You do that.” You fetch your bag and head towards the door, Bucky, Steve, Pepper and Clint trailing behind you. “See you later, Wanda!”

“Bye, guys!”

Outside on the street, the evening sun is attempting to pierce the clouds. A breeze ruffles Bucky’s messy hair. Clint and Pepper say goodbye, then the three of you begin the now-familiar walk home.

“Now, I don’t know what you had planned for Saturday,” Steve says, “But I’m afraid there’s no film night this week. Everyone’s prepping for company auditions.”

“Oh,” You say, your stomach swooping. “I know you’re both going to be great.”

“Thanks,” Steve replies. Bucky just hooks his arm round your shoulders and grins at you.

“So what happens when you get accepted?” You say. You hope the strained note in your voice isn’t too obvious.

“ _If_  we get accepted, we stick out the year- it’s part of Fury’s agreement with the companies- then pack up and ship out.” Bucky says it like it’s nothing, and you try not to react.

“And it’s still a long shot,” Steve adds, “Buck and I are much older than companies normally look for.”

You swallow down your discomfort and smile encouragingly. “Well, I’ve seen you both dance and they’d be mad not to have you.”

Bucky’s grin grows wider. “Thanks for the support.”

The frozen, sick feeling in your chest dissolves a little, and you move on to lighter topics.

When your road is in sight, Steve clears his throat. “You know what? I’ll just head back by myself.”

Before either of you can protest, he waves innocently and sets off down the pavement, humming a cheerful tune. You stare after him, speechless. Bucky just snorts.

“I love the idiot,” He pronounces, after a moment of silence, “But…”

“He’s about as subtle as a bull in a china shop,” You finish, slowly breathing out. This is fine. Bucky is going to walk you home, and your nerve endings absolutely aren’t tingling with electricity at the thought.

Bucky nods. “That about sums it up. Shall we?”

You nod. Managing anything else is well beyond your capabilities right now.

It takes maybe two minutes to walk the last street corner, cross the road, and come to a standstill in front of your front door. For each and every second that ticks past, your heart seems to beat a little harder. The wind is picking up, stealing the weak warmth of the sun from the surrounding air. For an uncomfortable moment, you stand side-by-side, awkwardly holding on to the companionable silence that had sustained your previous steps.

“Well-” You start, just as Bucky opens his mouth to say something. You break off and gesture for him to go ahead.

“Sorry,” A smile twitches at the corner of his mouth, “I was just going to say… It seems a shame to waste Steve’s sleuthing skills.”

The breath is suddenly gone from your chest. A tiny voice somewhere in the back of your brain is asking  _Is sleuthing even the right word?_  The rest is just the tingle of static; the spit of sparks off a bonfire.

“Yeah,” You say. Your voice is embarrassingly squeaky. “Yeah, it would-”

Bucky is suddenly very close to you and that’s it, all mental processes shut down. All you can focus on is the shimmering, liquid pools of his blue eyes, the slight shock of his hands on your waist…

And then you’re kissing, and you’re not entirely sure anything will ever function outside this moment ever again.

Because, God, has kissing anyone ever been so  _soft_? There’s a wildfire scorching through your mind, front to back, and there’s gasoline slipping down your spine that catches and flares in a series of clattering heartbeats. Your mouth is open, when did that happen? And still Bucky is somehow taking, still pushing for more, his lips moving in a way that is surely precisely calculated to make you melt. You fasten your hands into the fabric of his jumper to hold yourself down, or maybe closer, you’re not sure. His breath hitches-

And then he pulls back, and the world moves once again.

For a moment, you just have to  _exist_  for a moment. Anything more is absolutely beyond your mental faculties. You find yourself leaning forward, resting your chin on your hands, pressing your hands into Bucky’s chest. Almost automatically, his arms fully circle your waist, holding you closer. His breath tickles the top of your head.

“OK?” You can feel his words rumbling up through all the places you’re touching. The bonfire has settled, banked down: now it’s more of a contented glow, suffusing your veins. You breathe your reply into tickle of fabric against your lips.

“Yeah.”

Although you can’t see his face, you can  _feel_  Bucky smiling. You huff out a breath and dare to lift your head.

Yes, he’s smiling. Your heart feels like it’s growing, filling all the way up to the top.

“Steve should sleuth more often,” You murmur, and Bucky’s laugh booms out of him. He ducks his head to press a kiss to the top of your hair.

“I’m sure that can be arranged,” He chuckles, and your heart skips in excitement- but he straightens up slowly and lifts his hands to rest on your shoulders. “But for now, if I don’t head back I’ll have to ring Steve to let me in, and that’s not a humiliation worth suffering.”

You snort, and ignore the little curl of disappointment in your abdomen at Bucky’s words. “Couldn’t have that happening.”

“I’ll see you at the weekend?” He turns it into a question, so you answer with the affirmative.

“Of course.” You tilt your head and let loose the smile that’s threatening to take over your whole face. “We’ll do something fun.”

“I like the sound of that.”

“Alright then,” You say, reluctantly stepping back and dropping your hands. “Off you go. Otherwise you’ll never leave.”

Bucky dramatically claps a hand to his heart. “You wound me, Y/N!”

You roll your eyes and force yourself to make the short walk to your door (otherwise you’ll probably stay on the pavement, trading insults and kisses, forever). “See you, Bucky.”

“See you,” He calls. As the door swings closed, you can still see the corner of his smile sneaking round the edge of his face.


	11. Poison & Wine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poison & Wine, by The Civil Wars.

The sun is hidden behind thick cloud when you pull back the blinds the next morning, but you find yourself gazing fondly at the street beyond regardless. You sing loudly in the shower. As you make breakfast, you find yourself humming softly to yourself.

Yeah, OK, you’ll admit it- you’re happy.

You breeze through work: Lola packs you off re-shelving and you spend half of your time daydreaming, dancing around to the music piping in through your headphones in remote corners of the library. You can barely stop smiling. Your heart is buzzing.

You know Bucky is in the studio all day, so you’re not expecting to hear from him until later. You leave your phone in your bag as you head home, then plan to spend the evening curled up in bed catching up on your favourite shows.

The reality couldn’t be more different.

You make it as far as pulling back the duvet, laptop in hand, when the doorbell rings. Frowning, you set the screen down on the mattress and head to the door- you’re not expecting anyone, either a visitor or a parcel, but occasionally the neighbours pop round to see if any post has been accidentally delivered to you. You hurry down the stairs and pull open the external door.

Bucky is standing on your porch.

Any leap in your heart is swiftly quashed by the expression on his face: you freeze just watching him. Your cheerful greeting dies somewhere on the way up to your mouth. “Bucky?”

He doesn’t even look at you. His face is ghostly pale, the only slash of colour blooming from where his lips are tightly pressed together. His eyes, focused somewhere by your feet, are as flat and blank as glass.

“Can I,” His voice is strained, “Can I come in?”

Your heart seems to be stuck in your throat, even as your stomach drops away into free fall. Something is horribly, horribly wrong. But you nod. “Of course.”

The pair of you walk up to your flat in silence. It’s only when you see the lost expression on Bucky’s face as you shut the door that you find your voice again.

“Do you want to sit down?”

Slowly, Bucky crosses to the tiny sofa and drops onto the cushions. The dead look on his face doesn’t change. You clench your hands into fists and gather together every scrap of courage you possess.

“Bucky,” You have to swallow, your throat is so dry, “You’re scaring me. What’s going on?”

The silence that stretches out after your words is almost unbearable.

Finally, after several agonising moments, Bucky’s jaw clenches. Without thinking, you drift closer to him- and notice that his hands are squeezed so tightly that his knuckles are staring out white.

“It’s Steve,” He manages, the usual timbre of his voice rough and broken. “He dislocated his knee again today in practice.”

Your insides seem to shrivel up.

“Oh. Oh, Bucky, I’m so sorry-” You cross the remaining distance and automatically pull him into your arms. For a moment, he remains stiff and resistant in your embrace- but before you can panic, his shoulders heave and he buries his face in your neck. You murmur soothingly to him, stroking one hand carefully over his dark messy hair, and firmly bite back the tears that are stinging your eyes. There’s no point in both of you having a breakdown.

“I’m such a coward,” Bucky whispers, bleakly. You tighten your grip and glare at the top of his head.

“Don’t be stupid.” Your tone is more forceful than you intended. Bucky stiffens again.

“I couldn’t even go with him in the ambulance,” He grinds out. “Because I know they’ll tell him…”

He isn’t able to go on.

“Right.” You sit up abruptly. “Do you want a bit longer?”

“Huh?”

“Well, we need to get you to the hospital. I’m pretty sure visiting hours are open until five. I’ll come with you, of course. If you want me to.”

Bucky lifts his head. “I can’t.”

You carefully fit your hand along the line of his jaw. “You can,” You tell him, and hope he can’t hear the shake in your voice, “You can.”

~~

You’ve been to St Marks Hospital a couple of times since settling here, and it’s nice- for a hospital. There are plenty of windows and an entire absence of bilious green paint, and the staff are business-like and helpful. When you approach the front desk and ask for one Steven Rogers, admitted earlier that day for a severe dislocation, you are instantly directed to the appropriate ward on the second floor. Bucky remains silent throughout, following you through the bustling corridors like a blank-faced shadow.

You round a corner, counting off the ward numbers under your breath, then spot a skinny red headed girl in quiet conversation with a tall, brown-skinned boy. Nat looks up, her face drawn, and an expression of concentrated relief settles into her features. Sam turns around and manages a smile.

“Hey,” He says, “Glad you could make it.”

You pull him into a hug without speaking. In the corner of your vision, you can see Nat stepping to one side and carefully laying a hand on Bucky’s shoulder.

“How’s he doing?” You ask, when it becomes clear that no more conversation is forthcoming. Nat and Sam share a look.

“The injury’s bad,” Nat finally says, “He only came out of surgery twenty minutes ago. But he’s bearing up.”

“He’s Steve,” Sam adds, and that needs no further explanation. He steps back and gestures towards the door. “Go on, then. We’ve probably bored him to tears already.”

Bucky looks frantically at you. When you nod, he squares his shoulders. Together, you walk onto the ward.

Steve is halfway down on the left-hand side, lying on top of the covers with a swell of bandages covering his right knee. When he recognises you, his mouth attempts a smile.

“Hey. I’m a little out of it, the painkillers are pretty strong.”

“That’s OK,” You tell him, then subtly try to nudge Bucky in the side, “We’re just glad you’re awake.”

Steve’s gaze lands on his friend. Regret washes over his face like a tide. “Guess this is it, pal. End of the line.”

“Don’t say that,” Bucky says roughly, striding forward to seize Steve’s hand. “It’s just rehab. You’ve done it before.”

Steve tries a smile again, but there’s no real warmth in it. “Not this time, Buck. Doctor says I’ll end up in a wheelchair if I do.” His voice is gravelly with suppressed tears and you have to look away, lest either of them see how close you are to crying. Bucky’s head bows.

“I’m sorry,” He whispers. You swallow painfully and begin to retreat down the ward. This is a private moment. You shouldn’t be here. The last thing you hear before you’re out of earshot is Steve’s voice.

“Not your fault pal. I was just on borrowed time. And now the game’s finally up.”

When the ward door swings closed behind you, your eyes are swimming with tears.

“Oh, god,” Nat’s voice is strained, “Did they do their heart-wrenching best friends thing? Sam! I think we need a hug over here!”

An arm settles over your shoulders and you press gratefully into the contact.

“Is Steve really going to end up in a wheelchair?” You sniff. Wildly, you imagine Sam sighing in exasperation, Nat laughing- “ _Is that what he said? What a drama queen!”-_  but when Sam’s sigh does come, it’s heavy with despair.

“He won’t,” Nat says tightly, “Not if he’s not stupid.”

“But he’ll have to stop dancing,” You finish. Your insides have now solidified, a mysterious alchemy of sorrow transforming them to lead.

“Yeah.” Sam’s reply is carried out in a slow breath. “Yeah.”

Your throat burns. Saltwater stings your eyes. You can conjure no words of comfort, no spectre of hope. Steve’s life has just fallen apart, and all you can do is stand helplessly by and watch.

“Come on,” Nat eventually says, “It’s nearly half five. We’ll have to head back.”

“Are they keeping him in overnight?” You ask.

“Yeah. He’s on some pretty trippy drugs. Apparently they’ll sort him out with crutches and shit tomorrow.”

“And what happens after that?” You don’t know what possessed you to say it. As if any of you can look any further than the current moment, as if you can consider doing anything other than lurching from one obstacle to the next. But Nat, her porcelain face set, meets your eyes and answers.

“He’ll finish the year. He’ll get the qualification, minus the practical element. After that…”

“After that we’ll make it work,” Sam says, his voice low and determined. You force down the rest of your tears and wipe your eyes. For all of Sam’s bravado, you can read the bleakness in Nat’s tone. There is little more obsolete than an injured dancer: Steve will be stuck in a dead-end, nowhere to go. And there’s nothing you can do.

“Alright,” You say, drawing in a deep breath, “Let’s go in and get this over with.”

~~

To your surprise, Bucky doesn’t protest when Nat orders him, with her own particular brand of bedside manner, to leave the cripple alone to get some rest. He just nods as the rest of you say goodbye to Steve, before following you back down the corridors out into the now cloudless evening.

“Right,” Nat says, “I vote we go home, and obliterate the memory of this shitty day as much as possible.”

“That sounds good,” You say.

“You want to come back with us?” Sam asks. For a moment, you’re on the brink of refusing- this almost isn’t your grief to share in, and you don’t want to impose- but then you nod. There’s nothing worse than being sad by yourself.

“We’ll get the bus,” Nat decides, and the four of you traipse off to the stop. Bucky remains silent the whole time. You stay close to him, but don’t press him to talk. You don’t feel very much like saying anything, either.

The atmosphere is noticeably subdued back at the academy. Several people stop Nat and Sam to ask after Steve, and they repeat the same spiel over again: he’s had surgery, no, he won’t be back tonight, yes, we’ll pass on your good wishes. Nobody asks about rehab. It’s like they all know, but are afraid that voicing it will make it real.

When you reach the staircase, Bucky stops.

“Can we stay away from the common room tonight?” He asks. You’re nodding before anyone else can answer, but Nat and Sam agree.

“Why don’t we go down to my room?” Sam says, “I’ll kick Theo out, he won’t mind.”

Nat nods. “Let’s do that.”

So you wander through the foyer and take a door out of the fancy reception room where you had sat after their performances, years and years and years ago. Sam’s room is on the ground floor, tucked behind the studios. Theo, a white kid with curly red hair, immediately acquiesces to Sam’s request for the room to yourselves for a few hours. You almost can’t stand the expression of pity he gives the four of you as he slides out of the door and heads elsewhere.

“Don’t be shy,” Sam says, with something of his usual relaxed humour, and you sit down beside Bucky on the left-hand bed.

“Why don’t we catch up with Game of Thrones?” Nat asks, “Steve never-” She breaks off.

_Steve never watched that with us_ , maybe.

“Good idea.” Sam covers the awkward moment and reaches for his laptop. By your side, Bucky slowly lifts his arm and tugs you closer until you’re curled up alongside him, taking comfort from the warmth that seeps through your clothes and the gentle movement of his breathing.

“Can you stand this, Nat?” You ask, attempting to joke. She eyes the pair of you, then snorts.

“Special circumstances.”

So, you stay that way through the episode, although you ignore what’s happening on screen. Whenever the scene switches to darkness, you can see Bucky’s reflection, and his eyes are closed, his expression both pensive and pained. You resist the urge to cry once again.

Eventually, the closing credits roll. On the far side of the bed, Sam stretches.

“I think I need to head home,” You say, although you make no move to get up, “Before it gets dark.”

“Yeah,” Sam offers you an approximation of a smile. “Want us to walk you home?”

You look over at Nat, blank and withdrawn, and shake your head. “I’ll be fine. You guys… Stick together.”

Bucky’s arms tighten around you. Looking up, you can see the moment when his eyes open.

“Get home safe,” He whispers. Something in his voice is off, but that’s to be expected, considering the day he’s had. You nod, and ignore the unexpected jab of pain in your chest when his embrace loosens and fall away. Instead you sit up and get to your feet.

“Text me if anything changes,” You say, and the three of them nod in affirmation. Bucky’s is a short jerk of the head. Your chest throbs again.

It’s only when the front door of Fury’s Academy has boomed shut behind you that you finally allow yourself to cry.


	12. Clean

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Clean, by Taylor Swift.

**Y: Hope you’re OK, despite the awful situation**

**Y: Give my best to Steve tomorrow**

**Y: Try to sleep as much as you can**

**Y: OK I’m hoping you’re asleep, good night**

~~

Friday is your day off. You can’t decide if that’s good or bad. On the one hand, you don’t have to try to get through a day at work, with all that happened yesterday clouding the back of your mind- on the other, you have nothing to distract you from the horrible reality of the situation. You force yourself to get up and make a start on tidying your apartment. Anything to keep your mind from swerving back to the ugly bundle of Steve’s knee resting on stark white blankets, or the expression of hopeless anger on Bucky’s face.

**Y: Hope you’re bearing up**

**Y: Try to keep eating etc.**

You know that Bucky’s probably in class or at the hospital, so the fact that he isn’t replying doesn’t bother you too much. Instead you try to stay focused on the tasks in front of you: vacuuming, sweeping, rearranging your bookshelf until finally everything looks neat once more. Then you check the time and pick up the phone.

“Hey!” Wanda’s voice is strangely cheerful in your ears. “What’s up?”

“Hey, Wanda,” You answer, then take a deep breath. What do they say about bad news? There’s no easy way to deliver it. “Ah, it’s about Steve?”

“Steve? Is he OK?”

You silently offer thanks to Wanda’s preternatural talent for reading your voice.

“Um, no. Not really. He’s dislocated his knee.” Even just saying it, your words shake slightly with left-over shock.

“Oh, God. Shit. When did that happen?” You can picture Wanda’s face, creased with helpless concern.

“Yesterday,” You tell her, “I’m sure the Academy will be in touch but-”

“No, I’m glad you told me,” Wanda instantly reassures you. “Are you OK?”

“Bucky came to see me,” You say, slowly, unsure how to put what you’re feeling into words, “Then I went with him to the hospital… They’re all really-”

“I can imagine,” Wanda says, gravely. “Have you heard anything?”

“Nothing today. So far.”

“It’ll be OK. He’ll be OK.”

“Wanda, he’s not going to be able to dance again.” Your voice wobbles, unshed tears threatening once again. God, you’re sick of crying.

“Oh, God. Do you want me to come over?” Wanda’s offer is perfectly serious; she’s come across town for less before. But you can’t face dealing with such a concentrated outpouring of sympathy and concern. In fact, you can barely face dealing with anything at all. All you want to do is bury beneath the duvet and hope the day, along with all its misery, disappears before you next resurface.

“I’m OK,” Is what you say, rather than coming across as totally insane. “Thanks, it means a lot- but I’m OK. Just want today to be over with.”

“Yeah, OK. Just know I’m on the end of the line if you need me.”

Your heart swells with affection. “Thanks, Wanda.”

“Anytime. Look after yourself, yeah?”

“Will do. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Stay strong.” The line clicks off.

You drag in a few carefully measured breaths. The pressure on your chest eases slightly.

**Y: I’m going to bed, know I’ve been saying this a lot but hope you’re OK**

You eventually fall asleep with your phone face down on the floor, trying to switch off the tick of anxiety in your heart.

~~

On Saturday, you get a text at half eleven.

**Hi Y/N this is Nat. Steve is out of hospital. Has yet to hit anyone with his crutches although I’m sure it will happen soon. We are safely back at the academy. Thanks for your help on Thurs.**

Reading it, your heart momentarily unclenches- he’s out of hospital, in good spirits by the sound of it- but then, rereading it, a different kind of discomfort begins to well up inside you. Of course, you’re glad Nat has sent you an update; but why is Nat texting you? Nat doesn’t even have your number.

_Maybe his phone’s flat_. That’s what you tell yourself, and that excuse sustains you through the rest of the day.

**Y: Probably building up a backlog of these but glad to hear Steve’s back safe**

**Y: Sleep well**

~~

On Sunday, you cling to imagining a smashed screen, maybe dropped in the attempt to get Steve up those lethal stairs. The waves of doubt tug stronger and stronger, but you can still ride them out. One more day, you insist, one more day and he’ll text you. One more day and it will be fine. Just wait one more day.

~~

Monday comes, and there’s no word. At work, you’re flat and subdued- but after telling Lola what happened to Steve, she accepts that as enough reason for your mood and leaves you alone. You keep your phone in your bag the whole day, and when you unlock it to find a blank screen as you walk out of the library, you can taste the bitter sting of disappointment coating the back of your throat. But there’s one last option left. One last hope, one last maybe.

You tap Bucky’s number and hit call, then lift the phone to your ear. All he has to do is answer. Then you can put your fears to rest.

All he has to do is answer.

After the twelfth discordant ring, you slowly drop your hand and press your thumb carefully to the screen to end the call.

_It’s still not over_ , a voice inside you insists,  _it still might be alright_. He’ll come on Wednesday and make everything alright.

You try not to think of it as a fool’s hope, and carry on walking home.

~~

On Tuesday, you carry a hot, singeing coal around in your chest. It stings with each prod of your thoughts in Bucky’s direction, with every hesitant, anticipatory glance at your phone. Nothing seems able to dislodge it. You find yourself chewing your lip, fidgeting with your hands whenever they’re not occupied. Your mind won’t drop the  _why_ , the  _what’s happening_ , the  _is he OK_ , the  _did I do something wrong_ ; until each worry is gnawed to splinters that jab and crack under your constant scrutiny.

That night, you convince yourself it’s not worth crying over, and force yourself to sleep, even as your thoughts run in endless circles.

_Why?_

_What’s happening?_

_Is he OK?_

_Did I do something wrong?_

~~

You’re strung as tight as wire through the hours of your Wednesday shift. When the clock reaches five, you seize your belongings, wave a quick goodbye and dart out the door. You spend the minimum possible time back at your flat- diving in, struggling into your workout clothes, grabbing your bag and dashing out again- before striding, with butterflies fighting in your stomach, down the road towards the bus stop.

You know you’re early- which is why you’re surprised to see Sam and Nat already waiting at the stop.  _Only_  Sam and Nat. Your stomach drops to rest somewhere on the pavement.

Still, at least you might get an explanation. You square your shoulders and hurry over.

Nat looks grim. That’s your first clue. Sam’s smile is forced, slightly uneven at the edges. You look from one to the other. “Are you OK? How’s Steve?”

_How’s Bucky?_  You want to ask, but you keep a lid on that question.

“Steve’s OK,” Sam replies, “Not great, but he’s dealing with it.”

You nod, then force yourself to say it.

“Where’s Bucky? Is he-”

You don’t even know:  _OK? Better? Worse? Avoiding me?_

Nat glances at Sam.

“What?” You ask. You’re trying to keep your voice light, joking, because it’s fine, right? Everything’s fine. But when Nat looks back to you, her face makes your heart sink.

“Bucky got an exemption from Fury,” She says, carefully, “This was supposed to be their last week anyway. They only had two more compulsory hours to complete, so he asked to be excused from attending the class.”

“Oh.”

Your mouth can’t manage anything else.  _What does that mean?_

You stare at Nat, pleading wordlessly with her to explain. She grimaces slightly, then shifts her gaze to Sam. His eyes widen; then he looks at you, and his expression settles into something more sympathetic. He takes a deep breath.

“Don’t- don’t beat up on yourself, Y/N, but Bucky’s…”

He trails off, and your heart lurches.

“Bucky’s  _what_? Is it Steve? Is it the auditions?” You’re losing the fragile grasp you had on your temper; your normal checks have been frayed by the crises of the past few days.

Sam’s face crumples up. “We think so. He’s just- sometimes he just puts the blinkers on and that’s it-” Sam reaches out, maybe reacting to the way your heart feels like its collapsing in on itself, and delivers the final blow with a rough kind of care in his voice, “- For everything else.”

You don’t need to ask anything more. You don’t even want to hear it; you can’t stand to hear the final nail being hammered in the coffin.

Everything else: everything us.

_That’s it for everything else_.

Your throat has closed up, but you refuse to cry here, in case Nat and Sam bear word back to the academy of your reaction. You’ll be  _goddamned_  strong. So, you swallow painfully and stare away down the street as you force down the roiling, sickening waves of emotion.  _Deal with it later_ , you tell yourself,  _right now, hold it together_.

So you do. You hold it together through the bus ride, then through Wanda’s looks of concern as you prep for the class, and then through the class itself. So what if you perform the movements with all the feeling of a robot? If it keeps you from crying in front of everyone, it’s worth it. The two hours pass in both an agonising drag and the blink of an eye; all of a sudden the music has stopped and everyone’s filing off the floor. Wanda makes a beeline for you.

“Talk to me. Right now.” She gently takes your arm and steers you towards the corner. A black tide seems to rise in your throat at her words; you wrestle it down, but not before your eyes start stinging.

“Y/N?” Pepper appears at your shoulder, her delicate face pulled into a frown. “Are you OK? You seemed a little…”

“ _Sad_ ,” Clint signs, striding up to your little huddle.

The black tide surges again. You frantically glance around the studio- but everyone else seems preoccupied packing up. Some are already heading out, waving to Wanda. You bite your lip.

“Um, I’ve got something to tell you all.”

~~

Fifteen minutes later and the four of you are sat on the floor of the studio. Pepper has her arm around you, Wanda is handing you her emergency sugar stash, and Clint looks thunderous.

“So,” You sniff, “I think that’s it.” Your voice shudders on the last word, but you push on. It’s nearly out, the whole sorry tale, and you’re already feeling a little lighter. Your hands keep up with your words, just about. “I don’t think my pride can take chasing him anymore.”

“Damn right!” Wanda says, indignantly, just as Clint begins to sign something else.

“Do you want me to go beat him up?”

You snort, but shake your head.

“He’s not worth it,” Pepper affirms, her face stern.

“He’s not,” You agree, ignoring the way your chest clenches at that statement, “I don’t even know why I’m so invested. Why I  _was_  so invested.”

Wanda shrugs. “Life’s a bitch, sometimes.”

“You’re not wrong.” You give a watery laugh. “ _Feelings_  are a bitch.”

Clint shrugs, then winks at you. “I wouldn’t know.”

“Remind me, how many dates have you had with Laura now?”

Clint shuts up, and the three of you laugh. Wanda springs to her feet.

“Come on, group therapy is closing for the night.”

You accept Clint’s hand up and manage a smile. “Thanks, guys. For-”

“Don’t mention it,” Pepper instantly replies.

“Any time,” Clint tells you.

“Absolutely.” Wanda pulls open the door. “Now, Pepper is going to drop you home in her fancy car, and I’m going to sort out our competition entries. Clear?”

“Chrystal,” You reply, then impulsively stride over and hug her tightly. “Thank you.”

“You’ll be fine,” She tells you, then presses a smacking kiss to the side of your head, “You’ve got us!”

Looking around at them, you actually believe her.

~~

Pepper does drive a fancy car. She runs her own start-up company, providing appropriate technical support to the city’s high-profile firms and organisations, and although she’s ever modest you know she’s very good at what she does. Her apartment is on the other side of town, near the financial district, so she normally carpools with Clint- but when Wanda issues an order, you don’t usually disobey it. So you hop in the back of her Mercedes without protest, and listen idly as she turns on the radio.

Oddly, you feel better for having sobbed your heart out on the floor of Scarlet Studios. The combined pressure of disappointment, sorrow and fury hasn’t disappeared; but it has eased. When Pepper draws up to the curb outside your flat a little while later, you lean forward in your seat and dangle your phone in your hand.

“What?” Clint’s sign is a little cramped from having to turn around.

Fuck. You don’t actually know the sign for  _erase_. You instead give an apology and say, “Pepper? Can you erase Bucky’s number? I don’t trust myself to do it.”

Pepper twists in her seat and looks carefully at you. “Are you sure?”

You nod decisively. “I’m done.”

Done with bright blue eyes and dry laughter and a smile that simultaneously split apart and stitched back together your poor, battered heart. Done with sharp wit and stupid jokes and the gentle heat of swaying together to music that soared and seduced. Done with pouring all of your soul and care into someone who clearly didn’t want it. Done with waiting, and hoping, and hurting all at once.

Pepper clearly sees the certainty in your eyes. She takes your phone, swipes it open and you watch as she opens up your contacts and begins scrolling down.

**Bucky (Dancing)**

**Delete this number?**

With one tap of her finger, it’s gone.


	13. Where To Start

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Where To Start, by Newton Faulkner.

Two weeks. Two whole weeks slide by, marked by shifts at the library, rehearsals at Scarlet Studios, excursions with a varying combination of friends- and absolutely no contact from Bucky. Nat texts you a couple of times to give you updates on Steve; you reply politely. On the day of their auditions, you wish her luck. It’s as though the ties that had once bound you so closely to the academy are loosening one by one, until all association will eventually, inevitably sever. So you are mildly surprised when Nat messages you to ask if she can pass on your number to Steve- and, two minutes later, your phone rings.

You’re also surprised by how much courage you have to summon in order to reach out and hit answer.

“Hey?”

“Hey, Y/N!” Steve sounds exactly as he always has, and you feel yourself relaxing. “How are you?”

“Ah, fine? How are you? Are you-”

“Coping?” Steve sounds wry. “Well, I haven’t bludgeoned anyone with my crutches yet, which I think is a positive.”

You snort. It’s strangely easy to fall back into the old rhythm of a friendship that you had once found so comforting. “I’m so proud.”

“Thanks. Anyway, I wanted to invite you to our place on Friday night- we’re having a bit of a party to celebrate the audition results.”

“You know their decision?” Despite yourself, your interest is piqued.

“We- they will by Friday.” You don’t miss Steve’s hasty, pained correction and your stomach squeezes. “Anyway,” He hurries on, “It’s just a good excuse to get drunk and sing really bad karaoke.”

You smile a little at the image, but internally you’re already shaking your head. “Sorry, Steve. I can’t.”

“Look, if this is about Bucky-” An angry shudder ripples through you at hearing his name in somebody else’s mouth, “- then I swear he won’t bother you. I’d just like to catch up, you know? Plus, it would be nice to have someone else there who didn’t audition.”

_Damn it, Steve_. Any other argument would have fallen on deaf ears, but the idea of Steve sat on the sidelines, watching his friends move on, tugs at your heart.

After a moment of silence, Steve sighs. “Please, Y/N? Just come for half an hour.”

And you know, before you even open your mouth, what your answer will be.

~~

“ID?”

You blink in surprise, but automatically reach for your purse. You can hear music coming from beyond the door- but the way is currently barred by a skinny teenager, watching you implacably as you fumble for your driving license. You eventually brandish it and wait as he checks it over.

“OK, you can go in.”

“Thank you.”

You carefully close your purse, ball up the writhing mass of nerves in your abdomen and push forward, through the door that leads to the Academy common room.

The party is in full swing. Coloured lights are swooping around the walls and flickering over groups of people talking, drinking and dancing. The bass thuds through your chest. You crane your neck, feeling a little like throwing up.  _What if he’s here- what if he comes over_ -

“Y/N!”

“She came!”

You’re suddenly engulfed in a hug from what feels like about five different people, but when you’re released it’s just Sam, Nat and Steve stood in front of you, all beaming (although Steve’s smile seems a little strained, and he still wears a brace on his knee).

And, to your own astonishment, every layer of resentment, disappointment and anger falls away from your heart at the sight of them. They’re your  _friends_ , and you’ve missed them.

“So?!” You demand, your voice rising in excitement, “Tell me!”

Sam’s face goes very sombre- for about two seconds. Then a grin bursts across his face and he lets out a bark of laughter. “We did it!”

“Oh my God!” You clap a hand to your mouth, then tackle him into a hug. You’re surprised by how emotional you feel; you’ve only known them a few weeks, but pride surges through you at their news. “I’m so happy for you!”

“Thanks,” Sam laughs, “Hasn’t really sunk in yet.”

“Here,” Nat pushes a plastic cup at him, “Alcohol will help.” She looks lighter than you’ve ever seen her, those implacable walls let all the way down. You laugh at her assertion, even as Sam accepts her offering and takes a large swallow.

“Speaking of,” Steve cuts in, “Do you want a drink, Y/N?”

“Yes, please,” You say, immediately, understanding that this is Steve’s chance for an exit- and you don’t miss the grateful look he sends your way.

“Come on, just over here-”

You wave goodbye to Nat and Sam and follow Steve down the room, towards a trestle table stocked well enough to rival any operating bar. You’re served by yet another tiny teenager, before making for the chairs stood against the far wall.

“What’s the deal with the kids helping out?” You ask, taking a sip of your drink. The alcohol stings your throat a little, but it’s a good feeling. Steve smiles.

“Yeah, that’s the kids who get put in detention. They have to do a stint on the voluntary rota.”

“Ah.”

Steve carefully levers himself down into a seat, and you don’t hesitate before joining him. For a moment, you both simply sit, watching the party play out in front of you. You can see Sam dancing with Holly out in the middle of the floor, and Nat appears to have persuaded three strangers into doing shots.  There’s a strange kind of peace to being on the fringes of the action.

“So,” You eventually say, “When is this terrible karaoke I was promised going to materialise?”

Steve snorts, straightening up. “Any minute now, probably. We can’t keep Nat away.”

You have to hide your laugh behind your hand. “Oh my God. I’d never have guessed.”

Some of the tension fades from Steve’s frame as you giggle. You see your chance.

“And how have you been? Really?”

Steve raises an eyebrow, but you don’t back down, and he eventually relents. “I’m doing OK. And that’s the honest truth.”

“Are you talking about it to anyone? Are they offering you enough support?” You feel a little like you’re talking to a student having a breakdown in the library, but you suppose that’s given you good training. Steve just folds his hands together around his drink and sighs pensively.

“Yeah, actually. I mean, everyone’s been great, but Peggy- Miss Carter- she’s been- well. Really understanding.”

“Wait-  _that_  Miss Carter?” The words are out of your mouth before you can stop them. Steve’s eyes widen, then he claps a hand over his brow.

“Of course you know,” He mutters to himself, “Of course you do.”

“Sorry!” You exclaim, mortified.

Steve makes a strangled noise, before lifting his head once more. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

You wait for an appropriate amount of respectful seconds before giving an encouraging smile. “So… Does that mean it doesn’t matter because things are going well?”

Steve looks over at you, unimpressed. “Remind me why I invited you again?”

“Ah, my charming company?” You’re still joking, but more tentatively, prepared to take it back and apologise should Steve take umbrage- but he rolls his eyes and smiles out of the corner of his mouth.

“ _Clearly_.”

After a moment, you snort and nudge his elbow. “I’m glad something good is coming out of this shit-show.”

Before Steve can reply, the music abruptly stops and there’s a squeal of feedback from the microphone at the far end of the room.

“Alright, you lot, listen up.” You turn in your seat to see Director Fury, drink in one hand and microphone in the other, staring around at the crowd. “This is your night to enjoy, so I’m not going to stick around too long. You’ve earned the right to relax. But-” He glares around at his charges, “- If anybody throws up, they’re going to wish they hadn’t.” That gets a laugh. “Now, I’m going to go stand in a corner and watch you all murder a series of classic pop songs.” He sets the mike back on the stand and beats a dignified retreat.

Before he’s even made it ten steps there’s a flash of red hair and Nat darts up to the ‘stage’ and seizes her moment:  _Gimme Gimme Gimme_  starts blasting from the speakers and a loud cheer goes up around the room.

“Shall we go and cheer her on?” You ask, and Steve laughs.

“Yeah, why not.”

The pair of you get up and wander over to the edge of the impromptu dancefloor, where you have a good view of Nat cradling the microphone and belting out her (surprising, in your opinion) choice of ABBA. You find yourself nodding along, and she’s actually not a bad singer, if rather enthusiastic. When she finishes, she gets a big round of applause- but, apparently, she’s not done.

“Excuse me? Excuse me? Is everyone paying attention?” She clears her throat dramatically. “I just want to make an announcement. Despite having just sang the  _classic_ -” There are whoops of agreement from her audience, “-  _Gimme Gimme Gimme_ , I must point out that the pronouns are wrong, because I-” She gestures expansively to herself, “- Am gay!”

There isn’t even the briefest hesitation. The room erupts into celebration. You stand there, gaping, as two enormous guys who you’ve never even seen before surge forward and pluck her onto their shoulders for an incredibly cramped lap of honour. By your side, Steve is hollering encouragement.

“Is this a regular thing?” You shout, over the din.

“What? Oh, yeah!” Steve’s face is lit up, and his smile is infectious. “There’s usually at least one coming out at the back end of the year.”

You shake your head in amazement, then put your hands together and applaud as Nat goes galloping past. “Your school is so weird!”

“Ah, Fury doesn’t care,” Sam appears from nowhere, slaps you on the back and grins widely. “He turned up to student Pride last year wearing an asexual pride flag and a slogan on his t-shirt that said ‘Cupid’s Aro Can’t Shoot Me’.”

You’re so close to laughing, but then you look across the room- and it feels like all your joy dies on your lips.

Because there, standing out against the crowd, is Bucky.

You freeze solid. Your heart starts writhing in your chest. The sight of him is just as beautiful and infinitely more sickening than you could possibly have prepared yourself for. You wrench your gaze away as though burned- but not before you see his eyes land on you, his expression tightening up and souring in the space of a heartbeat.

“Steve,” You say, staring fixedly at your drink, whilst your voice is suddenly taut with two weeks’ worth of emotion, “I think I’m just going to head out.”

“What? Oh.” Out of the corner of your eye, you see Steve look up across the room. He wastes no time. “OK, hold on-” He takes your drink in his free hand, then hands them both to Sam, “- I’ll walk you down.”

“You don’t have to do that,” You say (because all you want to do is get out, out,  _out_ , away from the crushing disappointment and roiling anger that has suddenly leapt into life in your stomach), but Steve shakes his head vigorously.

“Yeah, I do. Come on.” And, to your relief, Steve moves around to shield you from the rest of the room, and together you walk away towards the door.

You don’t let yourself look back.

“I’ll text Sam and Nat, so they can come and say goodbye,” Steve tells you, as you’re slowly making your way down the stairs, the music fading behind you. You nod, vaguely. Everything seems slightly off-kilter, as though the mere sight of Bucky has knocked you reeling. “In fact, let’s go to my room. Wait for them there.”

You shrug, then listlessly follow Steve onto the second floor and wait whilst he unlocks the door.

Their room is much as you remember it- but a sketchbook is open on the desk, and you idly peer down at the pages. Steve’s drawings are crisply done: pencil constructions of carefully placed lines and elegant shading. They are good.  _Really_  good.

“Peggy’s been encouraging me to draw more,” Steve says, from over by the door.

“Good!” You reply, a little of your normal animation returning now that the immediate threat has faded, and you smile as Steve looks bashful. “These are literally amazing.”

“Thank you,” He says, then leans back. “I’ll be back in a minute, OK?”

You nod your understanding, then return to perusing his artworks as the door shuts softly behind you. You barely even notice yourself relaxing, you’re so absorbed: you pull out the desk chair and sit down, the better to take in each and every page. When footsteps sound outside and the hinge creaks again, you don’t even look up.

It’s the silence that alerts you first. Not the sort of silence that unfurls, comfortably, logically, like some great banner across the small space; it’s a ringing, hollow silence- the hole left after an explosion, or the static after a lightning strike. You raise your head. The door slams closed, loudly.

Bucky’s standing there, staring at you like you’re an apparition, every line of his body drawn and guarded.

Your heart drops through the floor. You can feel your mouth falling open. Flat, blank shock ricochets through your mind.

_He’s so close_ , your mind whispers, and you can’t tell if it’s agonised or pleading.

Bucky half-turns away, and something wrenches inside you. Something else yells a victory cry. The door rattles, but doesn’t open.

“ _Steve_ ,” Bucky says in a very low, very dangerous voice. “Open the  _goddamned_ door.”

The only answer he gets is silence.

And, for no discernible reason, anger leaps up your throat and sends you to your feet. “What the  _fuck_  is going on?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to freeze, outlined by the door frame.

“You can jam the door,” He eventually says. He’s still not looking at you. “From the outside.”

God, you actually are considering punching him. Or, failing that, Steve.

“So, what you’re telling me is that your best friend has locked us into a  _fucking_ _trope_?” Your voice rises, even as you bite off each word with progressing savagery.

Bucky is still for a moment. Then he nods.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” You announce, to nobody in particular.

Bucky snorts, like he can’t help himself. “Join the queue.” The sight of his peculiar half-grin is enough to make you want to scream.

You don’t, though. Instead, you clench your hands into fists and take a deep, frustrated breath. “We could just sit in silence until he lets us out. He’s got to fucking sleep here, after all.”

Bucky uncurls a little. The acidic look on his face fades a fraction. His eyes are chips of ice in the dim light. “Is that what you want?”

Oh,  _God_. The sincerity in his voice nearly undoes you.

But not quite.

“You know what I want?” You ask, your voice cracking like a whip, “What I  _want_ is to be at home, in my flat, a million miles away from this mess I’ve been dragged back into. What I  _want_  is to not be trapped in a room with  _you_ , of all people. What I  _want_  is for you to have not-”

You can’t continue. Maybe what you want is to simply go back, go back for two measly weeks in time, back before everything broke apart in your hands.

“I don’t think you get it,” You finally manage. You have to swallow to keep talking. “I can’t. I can’t just-  _forgive_  you, or whatever.”

Bucky stares at the floor. Slowly, he moves to Steve’s bed, sitting down like a five tonne weight is pressing upon his shoulders. You watch him, even though you wish you could look at anything else. Fury is shredding at your guts, twisting through your veins, burning behind your eyes.

“I really am sorry,” He says, softly, and something snaps inside you.

“Given that Steve had to fucking lock you in here, forgive me if I don’t take that seriously.” Bucky’s gaze jerks up to you, and you shy away from the touch of his wide, sad eyes. You spin sharply away, to stare at the blank white fabric of the closed blinds.

“I…” Behind you, Bucky trails off into silence. You feel like everything is imploding around you, crumbling into nothing. The final collapse, after your helpful application of dynamite. But Bucky isn’t done.

“Can you explain?”

His question is quiet. Undemanding. A plea, rather than an expectation. That’s the only reason you answer it.

“I-” You sigh, then fumble for the words. “Fine. Just- look, you disappeared. For two fucking weeks.” You can’t keep the bitterness from seeping into your voice. “And in that time I’ve had to try to erase-  _everything_ \- that came before that. I had to try and take all the fucking significance out of everything that I thought meant something, because I was obviously fucking wrong, wasn’t I?” Tears are clogging up your throat, and you angrily press your hands against your eyes. You take a deep breath, wresting back control. “That’s what your actions told me. That everything we’d had meant nothing to you. That’s… That’s why I can’t forgive you. And I’m sorry if that sounds silly and melodramatic, but that’s how I feel.”

You bite back sobs, and stare at the window, wiping your eyes with the heel of your hand. There’s a long moment of silence.

“Christ,” Bucky murmurs, heavily, “I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

A breath that might be half a laugh escapes you. “Yeah. You did.”

“Y/N.” You turn to look at him, sat all scrunched up on Steve’s bed, a frown knitting up that beautiful face. His eyes are very serious. “It did mean something. It did.”

Something seems to crack inside you. Maybe it hurts, maybe it doesn’t. You fling out your hand in a meaningless gesture and laugh that same humourless laugh. “So why did you do it?”

“Because…” Bucky trails off and drops his gaze to the floor. “Look, anything I say will just- it will sound pathetic. But I’m being honest.”

“ _Fine_ ,” You say. Brittle, one blow away from snapping completely. “Go on.”

There’s a moment of silence. Neither of you move.

“You remember I told you Steve dislocated his knee before?” Bucky says, softly. You do. Of course you do. You jerk your head to confirm it. Bucky takes it as his cue to continue. “And that I- well, it was the excuse that fucked everything up that time. So, when I got a second chance, I swore I wasn’t going to ruin it.” He looks at you like he can’t help it, and you’re not fast enough to avoid his gaze. “And then it happened again. Turns out I’m no better at dealing with it this time around.” He gives a flat little laugh. “Steve told me that I wasn’t going to drop out on his account, and it just seemed like… Like tempting fate, to try to have this-” He gestures around at the room, “- And you.”

You don’t even know what to say. Bucky drops his head.

“It  _is_  pathetic,” He admits, “But I’ve lost it all before. And I just couldn’t do it again.”

The urge to yell itches at your throat.  _He_  decided to pull everything apart.  _He_ thought he knew best.  _He_  treated you like you were stupid, or needy, or too much effort to maintain, regardless of his intentions.

And yet… His explanation kind of makes sense.

You swallow; force your arms to relax.

“I still- I can’t forgive you. Not- not right now. And your…  _Noble intentions_  mean fuck all to me, you know that, right?” You stare hard at the carpet. “Because it hurt me just the same.”

You look back up to see Bucky bowed forward, hands clasped almost as though in prayer.  _Let lips meet, as hands do…_

But that had been a lifetime ago. That hopeful, exploratory, joyful love was gone. Maybe forever.

_You still think **maybe**_ , a voice whispers in your head, and your heart convulses.

“So,” Bucky’s voice is bleak, “This is it?”

For a long moment, you’re silent. Torn.

“Y/N?”

You sigh. “No. Maybe. I don’t know.” Your eyes are drawn back to him, a question suddenly forcing its way out of your mouth. “If Steve hadn’t locked us in here, would you have ever said anything?”

_Or would you have let me accept my new reality? Let me go on, pretending you never existed, gradually washing you out of each and every moment until every trace was erased?_

Bucky shifts, his expression pained. “I… I guess all I can say is that I’ve regretted what I’ve done every day. Every single day. But I couldn’t reconcile it, I couldn’t find a way back, I couldn’t- couldn’t find a way to fix it.”

Your smile is brief, weighed down by memories. But you have your answer.

“OK,” You say. “OK. I-  _we’re_  not done.”

Bucky’s sudden look of hope sends a stab right through your chest, and you hold up your hand as though to ward it off.

“But.” You take a deep breath. “I want to go back. Right back. I need to know that we can still be friends.”

Bucky nods, slowly. His blue eyes glitter when they meet yours; that familiar wry smile struggles to curve across his face. “And I need to not fuck it up again.”

The huff of breath that escapes your mouth is barely a laugh, but you’ll take it anyway.

“Exactly,” You say, unable to summon more appropriate words. “Exactly.”


	14. Second Chances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second Chances, by Imagine Dragons.

“You took him back?!”

You look sternly at Wanda. “No. I just… I couldn’t throw it away completely. But I’m taking things even slower than before. We’re not even texting.”

It’s true. You’d been walked back to your flat last night by Sam (singing loudly) and Nat (singing even louder), leaving Bucky to deal with Steve. Judging by the glower on Bucky’s face, that had not been set to be a fun conversation. Regardless, this morning you still have nothing more to say to him. This second chance is a tentative, cautious thing- walking across thin, fracturing ice, or leaning out over a precipice with nothing but the wind to hold you back- and your instinct is to withdraw.

Wanda appraises you over the rim of her mug. “You really like this guy.”

“I really  _liked_  this guy,” You clarify. “But now…”

A phone trills, and Wanda grimaces as you deal with the squirming mass of emotion in your stomach.

“Sorry, Y/N, do you mind if I take this?”

You wave her ahead, and she lifts the phone to her ear.

“Hey, Leo, what’s up?”

You raise an eyebrow. Leo is your current partner in the Advanced class: loud, cheerful and with a good sense of humour, he’s been the perfect antidote to the past few weeks. OK, he’s not as good as Wanda- but to make the troupe even, she needs to take on the follow role for the competition.  The lady herself shoots you a  _don’t ask me_ look as she listens to Leo down the phone. Then, in an instant, her expression clouds over.

“Ah, I’m sorry to hear that, Leo. Are you sure-? OK. OK, thanks for letting me know. I’m sure they’ll be glad to see you. Alright, bye.” She ends the call, then gives a dramatic groan. You don’t even have to say anything; she sighs and begins to explain.

“Leo’s datemate has just been made redundant. He’s moving down there for a couple of weeks, just while they get back on their feet, but it’s a four-hour drive from here. He called to say he’s dropping out of the competition.” Wanda’s mouth twists, and you frown in sympathy.

“Damn. Can’t you ask Pietro?” Wanda’s brother might not class himself as a dancer, but his natural athleticism and years of exposure to his sister’s training have made him more than capable of picking up routines, and he’s stepped in more than once to fill up the troupe. Wanda, however, shakes her head.

“He’s got a triathlon that day.” She buries her head in her hands. Her voice is muffled and furious. “I’m  _doomed_. We’re going to lose to Vision before we even start.”

You try not to smirk at her mention of Luiz (who happens to be hosting the afterparty, and if you can’t engineer a situation that ends in the two of them dating you will be forced to admit defeat and eat your leggings), and instead try to think of a solution. Wanda’s right- you can’t perform the routine with one lead down. The dynamics, the symmetry, the impact would all be lost. You need… Someone to step in.

Someone who has experience.

Someone who understands how the troupe operates.

Someone who’s even practiced some of the routine before.

It’s your turn to groan.

“Hm?” Wanda lifts her head as you reach for your phone.

“Don’t thank me yet,” You mutter.

**Y: Nat, can you send me Bucky’s number?**

Wanda’s eyes go very wide (reading your screen, rude). “You’re  _not_.”

“You need another lead,” You say, tightly. “And I happen to know of one.”

Before Wanda can retort, your phone chimes.

**N: You deleted his number wow**

**N: good for you**

**N: Here it is**

The contact is attached to the last message.

**Y: Did he kill Steve?**

**N: nah**

**N: their friendship is too weird for that**

**N: now fuck off I’m too hungover for your relationship crisis**

You snort.

**Y: Yes ma’am**

Then, before you can lose your nerve, you tap the contact she sent you and hit call. Your stomach twists and rolls as you lift your phone to your ear.

“Y/N?” Bucky sounds… rough. You hate how the gravel in his voice sends a flush crawling to your cheeks. “You OK?”

Something clenches in your heart. He thinks the only reason you’d call him is if you were in trouble, if you absolutely had to; how far away you are from the easy, wonderful familiarity you used to share.

Mind you, he’s not wrong.

“Hey,” You say, then have no idea how to continue. “Um. Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” The rhythms of teasing one another come back to you slowly. “You know. You sound like you’ve been gargling granite or something.”

Bucky’s laughter sounds surprised, as though he hadn’t expected you to joke. To be fair, neither had you. “Ah, the party may have got a little out of hand.”

“Nat did mention something to that effect.”

“Nat?”

Internally, you curse. You’ve fallen into that one. Swallowing, you press on. “Yeah. I had to ask her for your number.”

There’s a momentary silence. The reminder of all the broken, hateful things you said last night is thrown into sharp relief in your mind, and you hover, uncertain how to find your way back to safe ground.

“Right.” Bucky’s voice sounds forced, but at least he’s brave enough to say something. “I don’t think she’s feeling too good this morning.”

You snort, relieved. “No. Anyway,” You muster your courage, “I actually called you to ask for a favour.”

There’s another pause. You cringe, waiting for Bucky to tell you that it’s a bit early for that, or even that it’s verging on hypocritical to ask for his help now-

“Anything. Anything within reason.” His addition is no hasty backtrack; it’s slow, reasoned. Automatic. Your heart swoops, even as your eyes widen in shock.

“Um. Thank you,” You manage. “There’s no fire involved, or parachuting, I promise.”

“Knives?” Bucky’s tone is now wry, and you laugh.

“No knives.”

“That’s within reason,” He replies, and you can feel your shoulders slump in relief. “Now, what actually is this favour?”

You take a deep breath. “The thing is… Wanda needs another dancer. Another lead. For our competition next weekend. Somebody’s had to drop out, and I wouldn’t have asked you if there was any other way- I know you’re busy, and-”

“Hey. Y/N?” You stop midsentence. Bucky sounds, if anything, amused. “It’s OK. I’ll do it.”

“You will? I mean,” You swiftly change tack, not wanting to be any ruder than you already have been, “Thank you.”

“Like I said, it’s OK. When’s the next rehearsal?”

You check your watch and grimace. “In about half an hour.”

A complaint would be reasonable, but Bucky merely says, “OK. See you there,” And hangs up.

You manage to avoid looking at Wanda for approximately ten seconds before she pokes you, hard, in the arm.

“ _So_?!”

You wince, then glare at her. “This still may be the most terrible idea I’ve ever had.”

Wanda tilts her head to one side, a small smile playing around her mouth. “We’ll see. We shall  _see_.”

~~

You’ve noticed over the years that when you get nervous, you forget how to just  _be_. Your attention snags on silly details: how you’re standing, where you’re looking, whether or not you’re frowning. And, waiting for Bucky to arrive at Scarlet Studios, you’re more nervous than you can remember being in a long time.

Pepper lays a calming hand on your shoulder. “Don’t fret. He’ll be here.”

“That’s what I’m worried about,” You hiss, and tug absentmindedly at your t-shirt.

“I can still punch him.” Clint isn’t smiling; it’s not a joke. Sighing, you shake your head. Clint had been the least convinced that Bucky should even be allowed in the same building as you, never mind crashing your practice. That’s not to say that a small part of you  _wouldn’t_  like Clint to punch him. It’s just that-

The door swings open, and Bucky slides inside.

All of your insides seem to drop through the floor. His hair looks wet: he probably got up and got straight in the shower after you’d called him. Just watching the way he moves sends sparks crackling up your throat.

“What do I  _say_?” You spin around, panicking, and Pepper now gives you a gentle shove.

“It doesn’t matter.” She smiles encouragingly. Clint looks over at Bucky and snorts.

“You could read him your grocery list and he’d listen happily,” He mutters, and you glare.

“Not. Helpful.”

“Y/N?”

You whip back around. Bucky’s right there, expression cautious, hand resting on the strap of his bag.

“Hey,” You say, emotions fighting for control of your voice. Then a thought occurs to you, and you take a step forward. “I can’t believe I haven’t asked you this yet, but did you get in? Did they take you?”

His face undergoes a beautiful transformation, melting into relief, into hopefulness. Your heart squeezes.

“Yeah. Yeah, they did.”

A smile fights its way out across your mouth. You can’t go closer, not yet- but you can be happy for him. “Well done. I- I really mean it.”

Bucky’s eyes become unbearably soft. “Thank you.”

Then, thank God, Wanda claps her hands. “Get over here, you lot! Does it look like I don’t have better things to do?”

“We know you don’t,” Clint yells, and she gives him the finger in return- but everyone jogs over to her.

“Listen up, we’ve had a last minute change for the competition at Vision Studios next week! Everyone, you remember James?” You look to your left and find him standing to one side, looking a little awkward. It’s jarring to hear his name after so long: like it’s a reminder of those first, tentative steps you took towards friendship. You hastily look back at Wanda. “Unfortunately, Leo can no longer make the competition, so James will be taking his spot. I expect you all to help him out so that we can kick ass!”

“Understood,” You mutter, and Wanda shoots you a grin.

“Alright! To make it a little easier on you, James, we’ll go over the routines you’ve already learned: Stay, Weapon of Choice and So Good. I’ll help you all out with the transitions. Move it!”

“Start off in three lines,” You say out of the corner of your mouth, as the others automatically file into position, “Over here.” The two of you walk to your mark, halfway down the middle row. “How much can you remember?”

Bucky’s shoulders visibly relax. “I might struggle with a lot of things,” He smirks, “But remembering routines isn’t one of them.”

You roll your eyes, then crouch down into your starting pose. “OK, genius, whatever you say.” And before he can retort, the music starts.

~~

He’s not wrong. Not once does he stumble, or wobble, or lag behind the beat. It’s almost unfair how easy he makes it look. You go through the motions almost carelessly in comparison; being thrown back together so suddenly has made you feel awkward, verging on clumsy. You make are no mistakes, but every time the routine forces you into Bucky’s personal space, you have to keep yourself from leaning back.

Still, you make it to the end of the rehearsal. When you can finally step away and put a little distance between yourself and Bucky, you feel a tangible wave of relief. You hadn’t realised how much still lay between you, despite your conversation last night. When you finally catch a glimpse of his expression, however, the disappointment in it makes your stomach drop a few inches.

“Bucky,” You say, impulsively, “Do you want to go get a coffee?”

He turns to look at you. “Now?”

All of a sudden, it seems like a stupid idea. “Sorry. I know you’re busy, and I dragged you out here in the first place-”

“No.” He cuts you off, his face suddenly hopeful. “No, coffee would be great.”

You catch Clint signing something over Bucky’s shoulder, and have to employ a great deal of effort refraining from rolling your eyes.  _Told you so_.

Then you remember to smile. “OK. I’ll- um-”

“Stretch? Don’t tell me you’ve been slacking.” Something seems to have eased in Bucky’s face, and his teasing is comfortable, gentle. You really do roll your eyes this time.

“ _Fine_.” Things aren’t quite relaxed enough to joke about whether you really should have invited him to practice, so you decide to drop gracelessly to the floor and start stretching. Truth be told, you  _have_  been stretching- but only because Wanda threatened to string you up above the studio door if you stopped. When you tell Bucky as much, he laughs. It’s the first time you’ve heard him laugh properly since everything fell apart: it’s equal parts intoxicating and devastating.

Ten minutes later, the two of you wander into a coffee shop down the road and snag a small table by the window. Being in such close (and, more specifically,  _date-like_ ) proximity has the immediate effect of stifling all your conversational powers. You nervously push the wooden stirrer around your mug and chew your lower lip.

“So?”

You look up and find Bucky watching you. Unsure, you shrug. “So?”

His mouth twitches. “So.”

Leaning forwards, you blow on your drink. “So.”

“ _So_.”

A snicker bursts out of you. “Look, we can’t substitute the word  _so_  for an actual conversation.”

The raised eyebrow. Idly, you reflect that the raised eyebrow will probably be the death of you.

“Can’t we?”

“No.” You try to sound firm. “Because I said so.”

“Because you said  _so_.” His words dissolve into a smile, and you grin despite yourself.

“You’re…” You trail off. The fear of saying something hurtful blocks your throat.  _Your noble intentions mean fuck all to me…_

“Y/N?” Bucky’s voice is light, but a serious undercurrent tugs at his words. “You can still insult me, you know. I feel like that’s a key component of our relationship.”

“God. That sounds awful.” You speak without thinking, then wince. ”I didn’t mean-” You take a deep breath. Now is probably the moment. “I just- I don’t think you’re a bad person.”

“Thanks. But- I wouldn’t mind if you did.”

You stare at him. It’s his turn to shrug. “I fucked up.”

“I mean- yeah. But, so did I.” Your thoughts have been clarifying over the past hour, and now you’re ready to explain. “I completely cut you off after the worst day of your life.” Bucky looks like he’s going to interrupt, but you shake your head and carry on. “ _OK_ , you started it. But I automatically assumed that you’d bailed on me.”

“Which I  _had_ -”

“But if I’d called you, five days or a week or whenever, would you have picked up?”

Bucky stares at you for a moment. Then he deflates.

“I… I don’t know. Probably. Even in the back of my mind, at that party, I wondered if you might be there. If I might run into you.”

You snort. “You did more than that.”

His grin is wry. “True.”

“Anyway, the point is that I overreacted. You overreacted. I guess I was already worried that you were going to drop me when you got signed-” The confession is out of your mouth before you can stop it, and Bucky stares at you with the exact kicked-puppy expression you’d hoped to avoid.

“Wait,  _what_?”

You grimace, helplessly. “When you got signed by a company. I figured you’d… Move on.”

To your relief, Bucky’s expression of concern fades into one of exasperation. “Of  _course_  not.” He gives a little laugh. “You really thought that?”

“Yep.” You feel yourself relaxing, and your voice loosens up as your breathing comes easier. “And this is what I mean! If I’d just talked to you about it-”

“No, no I should have realised-”

“No, you shouldn’t.” You say it with a fair amount of force, and Bucky draws up short. “You’re not a mind-reader. Neither am I. We just… We should just talk. I think that’s what this whole spiel has been about.”

You take a large sip of your drink and stare hurriedly out of the window. The conviction in your voice surprised even you. Bucky, however, is looking at you like you’ve just discovered sliced bread.

“You’re serious?” His question is slow, like he can’t really believe it. “You’re prepared to give this another shot?”

You tilt your head, chewing your lower lip. “I… didn’t say that. But I don’t want you to feel like you have to accept all the blame.”

_And yeah, another shot isn’t off the cards_. But saying that feels like too great a leap of faith, so you stay silent as Bucky nods his understanding.

“OK.”

There’s a moment of silence. Then he smirks. “So…”

You don’t even hesitate before leaning over and hitting him with a napkin.


	15. Tell Her

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell Her, by Rizzle Kicks.

“No,  _again_. He’s not going to electrocute you, Y/N, get up in his space!”

You groan and glare viciously at Wanda, whilst Bucky politely pretends to need a drink of water and vacates the floor. “I’m trying,” You hiss, when you’re certain he’s out of earshot. Wanda gives a careless shrug.

“Not hard enough,” Clint signs, and you’re forced to turn your glare on him, as well. “Don’t give me that.”

To be fair, you blame Wanda the most. It had been her idea that the four of you get here early to teach Bucky the final segment of the show routine; not to mention it’s her choreography that’s forcing you into such close proximity that it feels like you’re breathing the same air.  _Buttons_  is bad enough, thirty full seconds of dirty, teasing dancing, but somehow the final song is even worse.

Bucky’s walking back out onto the floor, and you pull yourself together. It’s your job, you tell yourself, and give him a weak smile.

“OK?”

You shrug. “Let’s just get this done.”

“Couldn’t have put it better, Y/N.” Wanda jams her finger down on the play button, and the music starts again. “Off you go!”

~~

Finally, finally (after two hours of private practice and then two hours of class, you might add) the troupe are performing to Wanda’s satisfaction.

“We’re going to kick ass on Saturday!” She tells you all, and you (mostly) believe her. It doesn’t help that Bucky is stood right by your shoulder, looking as though he’s totally at ease there, and you don’t know whether you want to pull him closer or storm out of the room.

You  _have_  been talking, though. Normal, if tentative, conversations, that flow easier when you’re separated by a few streets and a good number of walls. He still has classes (and several reports to hand in, a fact which he is not taking very gracefully) keeping him occupied, and you’re staying busy at work. (Although you’re not helped by Nahid and Lola, who listened avidly to the whole saga on Monday morning and are compelled to constantly ask if he’s been texting you). But four hours in his company has pushed all your internal conflict to the forefront of your mind, and it’s making you antsy.

Because, over the past few days, he’s been- well, to use your mum’s old-fashioned phrase, the perfect gentlemen. Ever-considerate, gently humorous, understanding and respectful. You can’t help that suspect Bucky Barnes has begun a campaign to kill you with kindness; and therein lies the whole trouble. A significant portion of you can’t help but being suspicious, resentful, even. Rationally, you know you’re being unfair, but emotionally you’re still a little stuck in those weeks of bloody-minded separation, and it’s dragging you back from opening up once more.

And, although you haven’t explicitly talked about it, he seems to be goddamned understanding about  _that_ , as well.

It’s infuriating. But part of you can’t help but luxuriate in his careful consideration.

“Y/N?”

You look around, realising you’ve been so caught up in your thoughts that half the class has already dispersed. Bucky is nearly smiling. “You still there?”

You blink, then sigh. “Yeah. Sorry. Just about, I think.”

“You looked good, you know.” When you raise an eyebrow, he just nods. “Much better than me.”

And that, right there, is what you mean. It’s all this  _sincerity_. It’s going to break you.

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Bucky,” You sigh, and try to wipe the smile off your face.

“Not even to stretching?”

Your groan is basically just routine now; there’s no real feeling behind it. You go through the motions almost willingly whilst the studio packs up around you.

“Alright, get off my floor.” Wanda finally marches up to you, a knowing grin playing around her mouth. “I expect you both to be rested up and fighting fit for the weekend, yeah?”

Bucky, goddamn him, raises his hand in an approximation of a salute. “As you say, lady.”

She snorts, then fixes you with a stare. You roll your eyes and nod. “Yes, Wanda.”

“Good! Now, up!”

You slowly get to your feet and watch as she strides off to turn out the lights. “She’ll calm down once Saturday’s done with.”

“Ah, she has a certain charm,” Bucky snickers, and you swat at his shoulder in retribution.

“Come on, idiot. Let’s get out before she locks us in here.”

“Don’t give me any ideas!” Wanda calls, and you make a dash for your bags as the studio behind you plunges into darkness.

~~

Calm chatter carries the pair of you back home. The weather looks threatening- grey clouds mass overhead- but you arrive at your street still dry, and considerably more relaxed than earlier. Every time Bucky says something to make you laugh, or pushes his hand nervously through his hair, or even just gives you that sidelong smile, you can feel your heart twist and jump in your chest. He’s so close- not physically, there’s two feet of empty air between you, but emotionally…

“Guess I’ll see you on Saturday, then.”

You both pause on the pavement, just out of sight of your flat. You give him a sharp grin. “Keep practicing.”

He rolls his eyes, but nods. “You know, I think Steve’s more excited about it than I am. He’s always coming along to watch me rehearse.”

“Can you get Nat to work with you? Help you pull the partner work together?”

Your question is casual, practical, so when Bucky falls silent, you can’t understand what it is you’ve said. But then he gives you a look that’s almost… shy.

“It wouldn’t be the same.”

The breath whooshes out of you. How can five short words carry so much weight, mean so much more than just the blunt intention? Bucky gives you a wry smile.

“See you on Saturday, doll.”

And, before you can react or step back or move a muscle, he leans forward and brushes a kiss on your cheek. For a moment, he lingers, close, warm.

You swallow. “Don’t push it, Barnes.” You hate how breathy your voice sounds. He snorts.

“Yes, ma’am.” And then he’s gone, and walking away before you can decipher his expression, and you try to ignore the downward lurch of your heart as he expands the distance between you, further and further and further…

Then you give yourself a little shake, and uproot yourself from the pavement.  _You brought this upon yourself_ , you tell yourself, sternly, then force yourself to think of anything other than the blue-eyed boy who’s somehow pried his way back into your heart.


	16. Bad Liar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bad Liar, by Selena Gomez.

Saturday dawns with the kind of clear, bright light that promises heat to come, and you jump out of bed with excitement already pulsing through your veins. You’ve always loved the thrill of competitions. The nerves, the camaraderie, the elation when you finish- all are just as potent now as they were on your first attempt, however many years ago. You spend the afternoon wandering around your flat, texting Bucky and waiting for your lift to arrive.

**B: how are you this morning? Excited?**

**Y: Only always**

**Y: I assume you don’t get nervous ;)**

**B: nah, cool as ice ;)**

**Y: Of course**

**Y: Is Clint giving you a lift?**

The competition is at a high school somewhere on the far side of town, and those of you without transport have been forced to carpool. Thankfully, both Wanda and Pepper had offered you separate lifts- but you had opted for the latter. Competition days sent Wanda into a state of nervous frenzy that was quite alarming to behold.

**B: yh**

**B: and nat and sam and steve**

**Y: They’re all coming?**

You’d already had a good luck text from Steve (he’d also called and apologised for the incident on the night of the party for at least half an hour- it seemed far simpler to forgive and forget the whole thing) but you had expected them to stay away from the actual competition. The thought of seeing them all again makes you smile.

**B: couldn’t keep them away**

**B: nat threatened to bring banners**

**Y: Is Sam bringing pompoms?**

**Y: Tell him I’ll be disappointed if he doesn’t**

**B: Your wish is my command**

**Y: Excellent**

The blast of a car horn from the street makes you jump.

**Y: got to go, my ride is here**

**B: see you soon**

**Y: :)**

You pick up your bag, check you have your keys, then dash down the stairs. Pepper’s car is sat by the curb, and you can hear music coming from inside. When you open the passenger door, she leans across and smiles.

“Hey! How are you?”

“Good!” You slide into the seat and buckle your seatbelt. “Excited. And nervous.”

Pepper shifts into first and pulls out into the road. “Just for the competition?” Her tone is deceptively neutral. Your first instinct is to brush her subtle question away with a joke, but, to your own surprise, you sigh.

Wordlessly, Pepper turns the radio down, and waits.

“I mean…” You struggle for words, “I just- I didn’t expect things to work out. With him. I thought he’d mess it up, or we just wouldn’t be able to go back to that kind of… easiness. But…”

Pepper lets you trail off into silence before speaking. “Do you want my advice?”

At this point, you’d probably take the advice of a lamppost, if it offered: you’re nodding before she’s even finished her sentence.

“OK… I think you’re thinking too much about this.”

“Oh, right,” You scoff, “Because I shouldn’t be thinking about it at  _all_.”

“That’s not what I said. What I mean is that you should just let it happen.”

“Go with the flow.” Your voice is wry, but Pepper just nods sincerely and thumbs the volume back up. You turn her words over in your mind. Maybe she has a point. You stay in silence for the rest of the journey, lost in thought as you watch the suburbs slide by beyond the window.

~~

The reception of Oakwood High School is a hive of activity. You follow Pepper into the throng, looking out for the distinctive flash of scarlet material.

“Over here!”

You spin around and see Wanda bouncing on her toes, waving from the far corner. Most of the troupe are already there, including Clint; and behind him stand Bucky, Nat, Sam and Steve. You wave without thinking twice, and their faces light up.

“Hey!” Sam instantly pulls you into a hug. “Sorry, looks like I left my pompoms at home.”

You sigh in mock exasperation. “Damn it, Sam!”

“Sorry, sorry,” He chuckles.

“I tried to make a banner,” Nat chimes in, “But these three insisted I wasn’t allowed.”

“Yeah, because we remember the Glitter Disaster of the Third Corridor,” Steve says, dryly, and winces when she treads on his foot.

“You know, there’s still glitter down there? I checked the other week.” Bucky smiles at you. “You OK?”

You nod, just as Wanda raises her voice.

“Alright, gang! Let’s go sign in! Then backstage to change and go over final preparations.”

“The glitter disaster?” You say in a low voice, as you follow Wanda through the knots of people towards the front desk.

Bucky grins. “Things got a little out of hand with her group presentation in first year. They had to make a poster, and Nat has a thing for glitter. Steve had to go to practice with blue sparkles in his hair for about a week before the glue dissolved.”

“There was glue involved?!”

Bucky checks behind him, then lowers his voice. “There may also have been an ambush, which I  _definitely_  didn’t help with.”

You laugh aloud, and when you catch Pepper nudging Clint out of the corner of your eye, you simply ignore it. Bucky’s smile makes it worth every  _I told you so_.

Everyone signs in, then Wanda leads you down a corridor. “Ladies, with me! Our wonderful leads, follow Oscar to room B3 for your changing requirements. We’ll gather in A6 to rehearse!”

“See you in a bit,” You tell Bucky, then dash off after Wanda’s long strides.

“See you later!” He calls after you, and warmth flares up in your chest. You then decidedly ignore Pepper’s swiftly sealed-off smile, and walk with as dignified an expression as you can muster to the classroom that’s been designated as a changing room.

The uniform for competitions is one of your favourite things about dancing. Although it’s simple: black skin-tight leggings, a black t-shirt and a red-check plaid shirt knotted around your hips, putting it on makes you feel ready to take on the world. Adrenaline bubbles in your stomach as you pull your hair out of your face and submit to Pepper’s attentions with a makeup brush (she has the steadiest hands). When you’re all finished, you look like a matched set: scarlet lips, smoked out eyes and identical clothes. Wanda grins around at you all.

“Let’s do this!”

There’s a collective cheer, before everyone bounds towards the door and spills down the hallway.

The guys are, unsurprisingly, already waiting in A6, wearing their all-black uniform. Your eyes find Bucky, leaning against one of the tables, and your heart (which has apparently never heard of  _cliché_ ) beats a little harder.

“Right, troops!” Wanda hops up onto a chair and hollers down at you all. “We have half an hour before we’re due to be in the hall. Because I am a generous leader, you can have an ten minutes to relax before we start picking up our routines. That will be all.”

You automatically reach for your bag- experience has taught you to bring a book to this kind of thing- but a gentle hand on your arm stops you.

“Y/N?”

You look around and find Bucky, his face strangely nervous.

“You OK?” You ask. He nods, then something inside him seems to resolve.

“Can I talk to you for a minute? Outside?”

Something seems to wrench inside you; but outwardly you remain calm, as though you’re not wildly predicting what he might be about to tell you. “OK. Sure.”

The pair of you walk out the door, into the relative peace of the corridor. You stand beside row upon row of school lockers and raise your eyes to his.

“I just wanted to give you this,” He says, and holds out a piece of paper. Several pieces of paper, actually, neatly stapled in one corner. “Just- read it, OK? I’m going to-” You take the sheets from him and before you know what’s happening, he’s stepping back and walking briskly away.

“Bucky!” You call, clutching the strange offering, “This isn’t exactly talking!”

“Trust me, doll,” He replies, and although he doesn’t turn around, you can hear the tension in his voice, “If I could have said it, I would.”

You watch him go, then stare down at the paper.  _Is he dumping me by letter?_ Scared, on the edge of panicking, you duck your head and hastily, you begin to read.

**SELF-REFLECTION: EXPANDING THE LENSE**

**By James Buchanan Barnes**

You frown. This is Bucky’s essay; the one he had to write for his module requirements. Why is it so important to him that you read it? From what he’d been complaining about over the past week, it’s just a comprehensive dissection of the technical aspects of commercial dance. You skim down the paragraphs, then flip over the page.

And there, about half way down, is a note in scrawling handwriting.

**_Start here._ **

There’s a small arrow next to it, indicating the start of a new line. You slowly lean against the lockers and do as it says.

**Whilst the technical aspects of this style are undoubtedly interesting-**

You snort. There’s sarcasm, probably borne of having to chip out a thousand words on the subject, practically rolling off the page.

**-The emotional aspects were a surprise to me. This essay is entitled ‘Self-Reflection’, and I will readily admit that at the start of the six-week practical period, I could see no way in which commercial dance classes could teach me anything about myself that I didn’t already know. I wholeheartedly believed that true emotion could only be found in the purest forms of dance; those which seek to portray the depth of human tragedy and fallibility, as well as fleeting joy. I could only see enjoyment in the rigorous practice of discipline and subsequent achievement. The idea of dedicating time to a style that seemed so unconcerned with technique and expression felt, if not abhorrent, then certainly a little ridiculous.**

**Unfortunately, however, I must admit it: I was wrong. At first, I was resistant to the idea, but it soon became clear that all my initial prejudices were so far off the mark as to be redundant. Not only was commercial dance technically challenging, but it was far more of a stretch for my mental scope than I had anticipated. I was helped in this by, of course, the excellent teacher at Scarlet Studios, Wanda Maximoff, and by my classmates- and one classmate in particular.**

Your heart jolts.

**I had not realised how little I understood (or, perhaps, had forgotten) about connecting emotionally with music and with a partner. I love the precision of ballet, and always will, but in devoting myself to chasing perfection some of the joy had disappeared from my dancing. I was constantly pressuring myself to do better, to continually improve, and something seems to have got lost along the way. I never expected to begin the process of reconnection through the medium of pop songs, but that was how it happened. I was taught how to let go of tension and follow where the music lead and, most importantly, trust in myself and live in the moment.**

There’s a handwritten note accompanying that block of text.

**_OK, I was trying to hit a word count- but it’s true. Cliché, but true._ **

Your throat feels tight.

**I will also admit that I initially opted for this module because I thought it would leave me time to refine my practical skills; in other words, it would be an easy option. I was, again, wrong. I was drawn into a new world, and, before I knew what was happening, I was completely hooked. This past year has seen some of the greatest changes in my life: in a few weeks, I will leave the Academy to pursue my dream as a company ballet dancer. I have achieved everything I thought I wanted. But I will never forget the five weeks I spent at Scarlet Studios: weeks that have helped me grow as a person, expand my lens, and fall in love in a way I never expected to.**

The typed words end there. You read and reread the last sentence over and over again, trying to process it, trying to believe it’s  _real_.

**…And fall in love in a way I never expected to.**

You tip your head back until it comes into contact with the cool metal. You can hear the low rumble of talk coming from inside the classroom. When you move your fingers, the paper rustles.

“Y/N?” The door opens and Pepper peers around at you. “Are you- are you OK?”

You must look as overwhelmed as you feel.

“I…” You look back down at the essay.

**… And fall in love in a way I never expected to.**

“I think Bucky’s in love with me,” You say. It sounds… Strange. Not steady, or desperate, or pained, the way it does in the movies. It’s just- words.

Words that set your heart beating frantically, like butterfly wings against a pane of glass. Words that make you want to fly, or run, or shout at the top of your lungs.

“What?”

“It says… It says here.” You lift up the sheets, and Pepper frowns.

“On the back, you mean?”

You flip the paper over and- she’s right, there’s another scrawl of handwritten notes. You don’t answer her. You’re too busy reading.

**_OK, we both know I’m shit at verbal communication, but I had to tell you somehow. I didn’t want to spring it on you, but I can’t think of a better time to do it. If you don’t feel the same, we can just go our separate ways, and I’ll understand. You’re just one of the best people I’ve ever met, and every time I see you my heart does that thing everyone always says it will, and those two weeks without you were fucking awful and although I’ve messed up so much I don’t ever want to throw this away if there’s the slightest chance. That was a long sentence, but I think the short version is that I’m in love with you. I love you, Y/N._ **

And that’s it.

Your throat burns; you feel as though you might float off the floor.

“Hey.” A cool hand settles on your shoulder. “Are you OK?”

“Oh my God,” A new voice echoes down the corridor. “Pep, why have you made her cry?! I can’t have her crying, we need to start warmups!”

You turn to see Wanda striding towards you, and realise that tears are streaking down your face. A shaky smile starts to stretch at your mouth.

“I’m- I’m not sad,” You say, then hastily wipe at your eyes. Why are you crying? You want to sing. You want to tear through the building until you find Bucky, and then stand in front of him and tell him-

“Please,” Wanda lifts a hand to her temples, “ _Somebody_  tell me what’s going on.  _Right now_.”

You laugh, a bubbling little thing, and taste the words on your tongue. “Bucky loves me.”

Wanda looks from the paper in your hand, to Pepper, then back to you. “He told you?”

“Yeah.” You can scarcely believe it yourself. You hold out the essay. “Here. It’s the last paragraph, then the back page.”

Wanda takes it from you, and begins scanning down, her eyes flickering rapidly back and forth.

“Y/N, where is Bucky?” Pepper asks. You shake your head.

“He just walked off.”

“Probably didn’t want to crowd you,” Wanda says, wisely, “But he needs to get his ass back here, emotional trauma or no!” Then she pulls you into a hug. “Good job, darling. Glad you’ve finally worked it out.”

You laugh again. You feel giddy, light.  _Bucky loves me._

_And, I guess, I love him, too._

“Pep, you go search for Bucky. You, wipe down your face and come warm up.” When you open your mouth to protest, Wanda cuts you off. “No, we don’t have time for you to get distracted! He can propose afterwards.”

You splutter. “I think it’s a bit early for that!”

Wanda pauses, then winks. “I didn’t say he’d be proposing marriage. Now, come on!”

You’re very glad you’re wearing such a thick layer of foundation; otherwise, you’d be blushing as red as a traffic light.

Warmups pass in a blur. Your whole attention is focused on the door, waiting for the moment Pepper and Bucky walk back through it.

It never arrives.

“I’ve texted her. She’s going to meet us by the stage.” You don’t even get the chance to ask your question before Wanda answers- you grimace, and continue to hover beside her as everyone files out of the door. She frowns. “Now stop stressing. That much tension isn’t good for you.”

“Said the pot to the kettle,” You mutter, but do as she says. You’re so keyed up that you can’t even talk to anyone as you walk towards the hall; you’re constantly craning your neck, searching for a tall, dark-haired figure.

And there he is. Standing beside Pepper, talking fast, silhouetted against a blue pin board covered with notices about extra-curricular activities.  _He’s right there_. You feel like every atom in your body has begun to vibrate.

A hand on your shoulder stops you dashing forwards.

“We have two minutes before we go on,” Wanda says, firmly, “If you aren’t ready, there  _will_  be consequences.”

You nod, already tripping forward, your attention pulled towards him like a magnet, like a lodestone.

Pepper sees you first; she smiles, and then touches Bucky’s arm. He looks up.

You move faster. There’s no crowd between you, no obstacles left, and then you’re standing right in front of him, about to tell him-

_What?_

“You could have just told me,” You finally say, and there’s that strange disconnect- because the words mean so much, but they just sound normal, like any other casual exchange. Pepper has somehow melted away, and you make a mental note that you should really buy her flowers.

Bucky’s staring at you, and the hope that’s blooming on his face is making you crumple and split apart and levitate all at the same time. You let yourself smile, and ignore the way your hands shake as you reach out to him.

“Wait-” He catches your wrist, his grip gentle, his eyes boring into your own, “- Are you sure? Are you-”

“Y/N!” There’s no argument in Wanda’s tone, and you grimace in frustration.

“I’m-”

“ _Now_.”

You stare at Bucky helplessly, and he shakes his head, unsure, but hopeful. “Guess we’d better do as she says.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see the door to the hall opening, and Wanda striding through it. The rest of the troupe follow on. You groan, then dash after them, pulling Bucky along behind.

And then you’re swallowed by the noise of the crowd and the heat of the spotlight and although there’s probably enough time to say those three stupid little words, this isn’t how you want to do it: hasty and unconsidered and without some semblance of respect for the moment. So, you bottle it all up, shove it down deep inside, and take your starting position.

Dancing always takes on a strange clarity when you’re performing. The adrenaline crystallises every phrase, accentuates every beat. You’re always afraid you’ll miss the timing, forget a move- but you never do. Not even now, with a storm raging in your mind and Bucky beside you, lit to a shadowy splendour by the harsh lights, moving perfectly in unison with your every motion.

There’s the pull and stretch of the backbend, the flowing movements of the chorus, and then  _Stay_  is over and the guys are striding to the edges as you take your place for the girls’ segment.

It’s easier, this part. There’s only you, and your place in the lines and clusters, and the lazy beat to follow. The crowd are cheering. It’s only now that you remember you’re supposed to be smiling, and you force your face into submission as you near the end of the section.

Then the leads turn back onto the stage, and you hold your breath as Bucky brushes past you. You don’t even try to take your eyes off him as he settles into  _So Good_. He’s too beautiful not to watch.

Suddenly it’s over, and you’re stalking back towards him, shrugging on the mantle of your character as the sultry rhythm of  _Buttons_  thrums out of the speakers.

Wanda had readily admitted that the impression she was going for was “A tasteful lapdance,” So, you paint a smirk on your face and give it your all.

“ _Typical, hardly the type I fall for…”_  You smile, lend it some bite. You daren’t actually look at Bucky, but you think he’s smiling, too. It goes easy, and although you’re breathing hard by the time the segment’s done, there’s only one more left.

_“[Oh, you’re taking up a fraction of my mind](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DYVtzQms7lps&t=MjA0M2Y0NGRjOTA3MmJjMTU2ZTRlYjM5ZTJiNWVlNmZjM2IwMDkxOCxGV0xybW1qag%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162703048310%2Ffeeling-alive-part-15&m=1),” _ Selena Gomez sighs, and you ignore just how appropriate the lyrics are.

You catch Bucky’s hand and he dips you back, bending over you before you push yourself back. Reluctantly. Oh, so reluctantly.

_“Every time I watch you serpentine,”_

Bucky does as all the other leads do, and rolls his hips easily with the music; but none of the other leads make your mouth go dry at the sight.

_“Oh, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying,_

_Oh, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying,_

_Not to think about you,_

_No, no, no,_

_Not to think about you.”_

Your heart is hammering now, and every time you come into contact with him- the bare skin of hands or the press of an arm or the almost accidental brush of thighs- you forget how to breathe.

_“Oh, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying,_

_Oh, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying, I’m trying,_

_Not to give it to you,_

_No, no, no,_

_Not to give it to you.”_

There’s a delicate line of spins to take you apart, then the routine pulls you back together. His eyes graze yours. Heat seems to flash up your spine, flooding your face.

And then the final line comes, and you sink to a crouch beside Bucky’s legs as the words echo in your head.

_“With my feelings on fire,_

_Guess I’m a bad liar.”_

Your chest heaves; your legs shake. The crowd are yelling their appreciation, but it breaks over you, like a rumbling, indistinct wave.

A hand reaches down, and you take it. Bucky helps you to your feet and you stare at him, helpless, silent.

You need to talk: you  _know_  you need to talk, there’s so much to say, but all of a sudden there’s no time. No time as you’re ushered off the stage; no time as you wait impatiently through the final performances; no time when the result is announced: Scarlet Studios, second, Vision Studios, first. There’s no time as Wanda spits venom through her forced smile; no time as you are borne back towards the classroom and then swept into Pepper’s car in the soft, dusky light of the evening. Out of the window, you see Bucky walking across the carpark, craning his neck even as Steve appears to be trying to engage him in conversation.

“Here.” Something lands on your lap, and you look down to see Pepper’s reached in your bag and tossed you your phone. “Text him. You can talk at the party.”

You glance at her, and see that she’s smiling. Suddenly, you feel a surge of gratitude.

“Thank you.”

Pepper just nods, and dabs on the accelerator to crawl towards the exit. You dip your head and start typing.

**Y: Talk at the party?**

You barely have to wait thirty seconds.

**B: yes**

You turn your phone over and lean back in your seat. After a moment, an incredulous laugh bursts out of you.

“You’ve forgiven him, then?” Pep asks, and you tip your head back, smiling.

“I… Yeah. Yeah, I have.” Saying it aloud makes it feel more real. You have forgiven Bucky. He’s  _worth_  forgiving. You almost reach forward and pull the essay out, from where it’s safely tucked in your bag, just to read his words again- but stop yourself at the last moment. There’s no need to. You know it’s true.

Nonetheless, when you finally find a moment alone with him, you think you might throw up with nerves. After the initial hustle of the party crowd, the thud of music and the shouts of increasingly drunken dancers, the back corridor out by the office feels cool, and quiet, and strangely dim. You reach out and grasp Bucky’s wrist.

“I forgive you,” You force out the words, staring at him in the grey light. “I forgive you, and I- I love you, too.”

Simple, short words. The beat of butterfly wings in Asia can cause a tornado in the Pacific; and so it is with your handful of syllables, your puff of breath and sound. Bucky’s hand snakes around yours, sending sparks across your skin. He gently tugs you closer, and you freeze, and you don’t think, and you take your own, oh so long ago given, advice.

You let go.

~~

God knows how much longer later, the door behind you swings open.

“Knew it! Pepper, you owe me another drink!”

You bury your head in Bucky’s chest, and you can’t decide whether to giggle or whine at him to make your friends go away- but hands are seizing you from behind and pulling you backwards.

“Sorry, James, but I need her to prove a point- in fact-” Wanda’s tone turns positively evil, and you dread to think what she has planned, “- You should come and watch. I know for a  _fact_  you’ll enjoy it.”

You widen your eyes in apology (and ignore the satisfied purr from some inner creature at the sight of Bucky’s lips slightly swollen and his pupils dilated) even as Wanda insistently draws you away. After a second, he just shrugs, and relaxes into a smile.

“OK then. But you give her back, you understand?”

“Oh,  _absolutely_.” Wanda’s grin is bordering on wolfish. “Now, come on!”

The noise of the party feels like a barrage after the silent heat of your moments alone, so you just focus on Wanda, winding behind her through the crowd. Frankly, you feel like you’re on a different planet. When people jostle you, you barely notice.

And then you see Wanda’s goal, and you roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

“Wanda, is this really necessary?”

“Absolutely,” She says, dragging you onto the dancefloor where the girls of Scarlet Studio are waiting. Luiz stands opposite, looking amused. “ _Somebody_ needs taking down a peg or two.”

“I can suggest plenty of other ways to dissolve the tension between you two,” You mutter, but know it’s useless to resist. Drunk Wanda is, if anything, more persistent than her sober counterpart, particularly when the reputation of her studio is called into question. “Fine. What are we doing?”

She tips her head to one side, her eyes brightening. She doesn’t say anything: but, with one hand, she makes a sharp two-beat pushing motion, and, all of a sudden, your insides are fizzing.

“Are you  _serious_?”

Wanda strides to the front, and raises her hand. The music abruptly stops, then a new song starts up- and the crowd, sensing a battle is about to take place, start gathering around the dance floor.

_Someday, Wanda_ , you vow,  _I am going to pay you back for this_.

“ _[Beep beep! Ooh!](https://t.umblr.com/redirect?z=https%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DuRQ7CyWLJSw&t=NjI0ZWZmOGQwOGM1Yjk2NjkxODZiMTFmNDZlZTEwYzMyMTViNWI4MyxGV0xybW1qag%3D%3D&b=t%3Amyp6OnQ0r6FKntirSPIcPw&p=http%3A%2F%2Fitscooltobefanficy.tumblr.com%2Fpost%2F162703048310%2Ffeeling-alive-part-15&m=1)”_

This routine- god, it’s probably the worst (or, that same inner creature whispers, the  _best_ ) you’ve ever done. The song itself is bad enough: innuendo so thinly veiled it’s basically explicit, but Wanda doesn’t really know what it means to hold back. She’d put it together for a ‘Pin-Ups and Pussycat Dolls’ evening that a local club had hosted, and really- it did exactly what it said on the tin.

_“I’m stuck in traffic,_

_Bumper to bumper, babe,_

_My leather jacket,_

_Smells like your aftershave,_

_All I want to do_

_Is get your hands up on my booty._

_Beep, beep! Ooh!”_

Although you haven’t practiced this for a good six months, the moves come back to you quick enough. You had more of a supporting role in this routine anyway- Wanda takes centre stage, and she gives it everything and then some. The crowd are already getting into it as she sashays up to Luiz and squats down.

“ _I’ve blown my engine,_

_I think I broke the stick,_

_To busy dreaming,_

_Of jumping on your d*ck,_

_To get me turning good,_

_You need to check under the hood, babe._

_Beep, beep! Ooh!”_

“Yes, Y/N!” Somebody (probably Clint) yells, and you toss your head as you strut backwards. Up front, Wanda is close enough to Luiz that they have to be breathing the same air.

_“Oh baby, baby,_

_There’s something ‘bout your love and affection._

_I’m going crazy,_

_The thought of you is driving me wild!”_

_Oh, it really is_ , you think, when your gaze grazes Bucky’s as you spin around and Little Mix start singing the chorus.

_“’Cause I love, love, love making love to you!_

_But I’m stuck, stuck, stuck on the two-oh-two._

_Won’t you help me, help me?_

_Just wanna f*ck you tonight!_

_Beep, beep! Ooh!”_

At the end of the phrase, Luiz is already striding forwards- he isn’t flanked by anyone from his troupe and it looks like he’s going to take on Wanda’s challenge alone.  _Perfect_.

_“Boy, you’re so sexy,_

_Just like your Cadillac._

_Just come and get me,_

_‘Cause I can’t hold it back.”_

Luiz isn’t just a technically brilliant dancer- he, just like Wanda, isn’t holding back. His amber skin shines under the lights, and his grin as he sinks down and rocks his hips is blazing. Wanda, being Wanda, refuses to give any ground.

_“People in the street,_

_Watch us in the back seat, oh._

_Beep, beep! Ooh!”_

Almost everyone has stopped what they’re doing simply to watch, but out of a sense of loyalty to Wanda you carry on with the routine. Not to mention you’re rather enjoying the sensation of Bucky’s eyes tracking your every move.

_“Oh baby, baby,_

_There’s something ‘bout your love and affection._

_I’m going crazy,_

_The thought of you is driving me wild!_

_’Cause I love, love, love making love to you!_

_But I’m stuck, stuck, stuck on the two-oh-two._

_Won’t you help me, help me?_

_Just wanna f*ck you tonight!_

_Beep, beep! Ooh!”_

There’s no pretence of competition left between Luiz and Wanda now- they dance together, totally oblivious to their surroundings. When the inevitable finally happens, and they meet in a burning kiss, you can’t hold back a whoop of triumph. Before you can enjoy your victory, however, a pair of arms enfold you from behind.

“That,” A low voice hums in your ear, “Should be illegal.”

Somehow, this man has managed to light a bonfire inside you, and at his words it roars higher. Your heart thuds; your skin crackles with electricity.

“Not to be cliché,” You huff, turning your head so you can see his face, see those beautiful cheekbones, that wonderful mouth, “But shall we get out of here?”

In answer, he leans forward and kisses you, deep and searching and in a way that would be totally inappropriate if you actually found the will to care. When you finally break apart, the sly half-grin he gives you nearly sends you reeling.

“Shall I walk you home, Y/N?”

You breathe, lift your hand to take his. “Yes. Yes, please.”

And together, you walk out, out into the warm night air of a summer that has never seemed so full of possibility.


End file.
